


With Interest

by everandanon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A+ parenting all around, Additional Details in the Notes, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bad Boy Castiel (Supernatural), Bets, Bisexual Castiel (Supernatural), Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Castiel is Claire Novak's Guardian, Fake Relationship, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nerd Dean Winchester, No Underage Sex, POV Multiple, Past Character Death, Slow Burn, Teacher Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 212,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27014926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everandanon/pseuds/everandanon
Summary: In which sought-after bad boy Castiel Novak agrees to make awkward, nerdy sophomore Dean Winchester fall in love with him for a bet, and quickly finds himself in over his head — but by the time he realizes his mistake, it’s too little, too late . . .Fast-forward 11 years, and as guilty as Cas still feels, he has bigger problems to deal with. Grieving his twin brother and struggling to provide the care his niece deserves, Cas finally sucks it up and moves back home in an effort to hold things together.Of course, it's only a matter of time before he runs into Dean - Dean, who's all grown up and even more beautiful than Cas always suspected he'd be. Dean, who says he wants to be friends, and is clearly much better at a game Cas hasn't played since he broke Dean's heart.Dean, who might not be the forgive-and-forget type, after all . . .
Relationships: Castiel & Claire Novak, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Claire Novak & Dean Winchester
Comments: 1464
Kudos: 667
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Part I: a heavenly creature, with a real dark agenda . . .

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in two parts; Part I consists of the first 8 chapters and follows their ill-fated relationship in high school, and Part II takes place eleven years later. Tags and warnings may be updated as we go (it’s been a long time since I read this, so I may not have remembered everything), but every chapter will contain the pertinent notes. As always, if you think I’ve overlooked something, please do not hesitate to let me know. Your comfort is my priority; I know there are a lot of notes and they probably make this story sound way more serious than (I think) it is, but I don’t believe in surprises either, so I will try to cover all my bases.
> 
> Note about the Bad Boy Castiel tag: Cas is more a bad boy by reputation than behavior. This is how his peers perceive him, and he’s known for the fights he’s been in and his numerous sexual exploits, but he also comes from a fairly strict, religious family and plays by a lot of their rules, albeit reluctantly. If you’re looking for a true, hardcore ‘bad boy,’ this isn’t it; these guys were all pretty average kids trying to cope and figure things out, and Cas is no different. (Honestly, everyone is Soft.)
> 
> **Minor/Background Relationships** : Sam/OFC (Valencia, if you’ve read some of my others), Anna/Bela, Claire/Patience if you squint, undertones of Kevin/Adam, as far as those last two pairings go, these kids are all 13, so. I’m warning for it just in case, but there’s nothing really significant.
> 
> There are also brief references to past Dean/other and Cas/other, which will be warned for in chapter notes.
> 
> **Additional Warning #1** : The explicit rating is for a single sex scene in a much later chapter, which will be marked and can be skipped. There is mention of bottom!Dean, but no actual bottom!Dean occurring, implied or otherwise, and it is indicated that Cas is flexible, so wherever you land on preference, be advised. Further details in the end notes if you’re concerned, though they contain mild spoilers.
> 
> **Additional Warning #2** : Dean is 15 and Cas is 18 when Cas undertakes this bet (though Dean turns 16 along the way). While Cas very clearly draws the line at sleeping with Dean or doing anything of a sexual nature, there is significant making out, and Dean is interested in going further. Cas also struggles with his own increasing attraction to Dean. Again, there is no underage sex or even explicit fantasy explored, but please be aware.
> 
> **Additional Warning #3** : There are references to Harry Potter throughout this fic. They are in no way an endorsement of JKR or the views which she espouses, but it is absolutely understandable to be bothered or put off by them in light of those, so please be advised that they happen fairly regularly across the story.
> 
> As far as the fannish discussions go, remember that character opinions are not necessarily author opinions, but some characters support Harry/Hermione, Ron/Hermione, and even Harry/Draco, and the last two are in the minority during this discussion. Further, this fic presupposes that information given in later books determines James Potter to be an asshole. If you disagree with any of that, please be prepared. I have recently watched the series, but have not read it in probably over a decade, so. Disclaimer.
> 
> **Additional Warning #4** : Speaking of disclaimers about things I haven’t read in years, I read Crime and Punishment exactly once when Fabulous Brat had to read it for high school English. Statements are made about this book as a plot device; connections are drawn. All of these statements and connections may be grossly inaccurate, and this author may have misremembered the plot/point of that story entirely, so fair warning.
> 
> **Additional Warning #5** : Cas’s family is religious. It’s indicated that Cas doesn’t put much stock in this, and it causes them to behave intolerantly to him in places. This is many kids’ reality, but this is not meant to be a blanket judgment of religion or to imply that all religious parents are lousy to their kids.
> 
> Additional details on the Homophobia, A+ Parenting, Past Character Death and Grief/Mourning tags are in the end notes, along with a gentle reminder about the reality of the bet situation.
> 
> Again, if you have any questions or feel like I missed something, please do ask. I am [questionableraccoon](https://questionableraccoon.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, if that's more comfortable.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and please enjoy! ♡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: mentions of recreational drug use (weed), brief reference to past Cas/other, homophobia (John yelling over Charlie and Eileen kissing), a kiss between Charlie and Eileen but it’s implied platonic, brief reference to slut-shaming (Dean noting Cas would get called ‘easy’ if he were a girl), light body insecurity (Dean is sensitive about where he’s at in puberty), Dean refers to Sam as a giant girl (this usage of ‘girl’ is typical of Dean and the year, but this usage is problematic), brief reference to child abuse and conversion therapy (neither thing is happening here), please let me know if I missed anything.

> _You’re a heavenly creaure_
> 
> _With a real dark agenda_
> 
> _You can turn a believer_
> 
> _To a damn dirty sinner . . ._
> 
> _\- Casanova ft. Verite by Allie X_

_**\- 2005 -  
** _

“Dean Winchester.”

Cas cracks one eye open to glance at Bela, though he doesn’t move from his position lying on the table, arms tucked behind his head.

“Gesundheit?”

She looks skyward.

“Do you pay attention to _anything,_ Castiel?”

He thinks for a moment, then shifts fluidly into the French Girl pose, lifting a brow at her.

“Some things,” he deadpans with a wink.

A hand shoves at his leg, and he cranes his neck to look at Crowley, seated on the bench opposite Bela. Beside him, Gabriel enjoys a very intimate moment with a lollipop, looking for all the world like he’s ignoring them.

He’s not, of course; Gabriel never misses anything.

“Get your arse out of my chips, you oaf, and listen to the lady. We have a proposition for you.”

Cas makes a face.

“I’ll try anything once, not anything _at_ once—"

“Oh, shut up,” Bela snaps, pausing to shudder. “As I was _saying_ — the latest drama of Lawrence High surrounds that adorable little sophomore over there.”

She points across the field to where a scrawny bunch of kids have, impressively, secured one of the few outdoor picnic benches for their use. Cas squints, mostly seeing a bright mop of red hair.

“The ginger?”

“No — well, actually, yes,” she amends. “ _That_ is Charlie Bradbury. The small, freckled thing next to her is Dean. Dean _Winchester._ ”

He stares for a moment; there are boys on either side of her, but one of them is wearing a cap and practically dwarfs the redhead, so he shifts his gaze to the other one and finds the freckles she mentioned.

A beat passes as he considers the boy.

“Cute,” he remarks, disinterested. “Why do we care?’

“Winchester, Cassie,” Gabriel interjects. “Tell me that rings a bell in that abandoned little church house you call a brain.”

Cas sighs. Spend K-through-eight in Catholic school and you never, ever live it down.

“Sounds familiar, I guess. What is that, a local crime family? They can’t be known for owning a bunch of shit, the Talbots and Crowleys have it all—"

“Football, you dumbass,” Gabriel interrupts. “John Winchester? Quarterback led the school to three state victories in the eighties, would probably have gone to the Superbowl if an injury hadn’t sent him to early retirement? Came back home to grace us with his presence and coach us to further triumph?”

The memory of a gruff, angry bearded man chewing him out after stumbling upon Cas groping a handsome foreign exchange student under the bleachers surfaces. If he recalls, football practice was in progress somewhere beyond, although he was perhaps a little high at the time.

“Huh. I think we may have met.”

“Yeah, well, he’s known for being kind of an asshole. Especially when it comes to — what do old people call it? — ‘alternative lifestyles.’”

Ah, that would explain the yelling.

“Unfortunate. Again, why do we care?” He glances over his shoulder. “Crowley’s not going out for football, is he? Even if his parents can buy his way onto the team, I’m not sure he’ll survive the first inning.”

All three of them stare, and he sighs, shutting his eyes.

“There are no innings in football, are there?”

“No,” Bela says slowly, and Gabriel snorts. “There are not.”

“Whatever. My point stands.”

“Sure. But you’re _missing_ the point, Cassie. John Winchester’s got a son — Dean.”

“The freckled kid, yes, I got that.”

“And Charlie Bradbury is gayer than a rainbow unicorn.”

“Good for her? Although I don’t see how a unicorn’s preferences would be reflected in their appearance, or vice versa.”

“ _But_ don’t you think Coach would have a problem with them being besties if he knew?”

“Maybe? She _is_ a girl. Homophobes often have a double-standard.”

“Hoo-boy. Yeah, not this one.” Gabriel shakes his head. “Nope, this one just didn’t know about it.”

“But he does now, I assume.”

“You bet. Last weekend. See that brunette walking over now? Eileen Leahy. The kids were playing video games at Deano’s, I guess, and gay makeouts are part of Bradbury’s victory dance. Apparently the whole damn street heard his dad yelling.”

“Unfortunate. Yet, again, I must ask—"

“We want you to try and seduce him.”

“Sedu—wait, _try?_ Excuse me, if I want to seduce someone, there is no _try_ —"

“Yes, yes, no one can resist your runner’s ass, we know. But no one’s had a reason to.”

Cas grudgingly acknowledges this; he’s not, actually, in the habit of pursuing people who indicate they don’t want to be pursued. But even if he were, the idea is kind of _gross._

“I’m not saying I can’t, but — he’s kind of old. And bearded.”

Gabriel starts choking on his lollipop, and Crowley thwacks him on the back as Bela squeezes her eyes shut.

“Oh, God, _no_ — oh, no, no, fucking _thank you_ for _that_ mental image—"

Cas shrugs.

“It was your idea.”

“No, it _wasn’t._ We meant _Dean._ We want you to try and seduce _Dean,_ not — ugh.”

“Oh.” Cas nods. That makes more sense.

But not by much.

“Why? What’s in it for you?”

“The entertainment value, obviously,” Crowley explains. “Watching you fail.”

“Watching you struggle to succeed,” Bela corrects.

Cas looks between them, eyes narrowed, but it’s Gabriel who speaks next.

“Crowley here thinks you can’t crack him, and Bela’s hate boner for you's got her convinced you’ll succeed — but only with a lot of effort.”

Bela makes a disgusted noise, but Cas ignores her to look at Gabe.

“And you?”

“Too poor to be in the running, but if I had to put my money somewhere — it’d be with Bela’s.”

Crowley shakes his head.

“If we were in college, and far away from Daddy Dearest, I’m sure you could manage. But I’ve done my research. Dean’s a loyal little puppy; he never disobeys an order.”

“Really? Because I heard he yelled _back_ , in the girls’ defense; he’s what, fifteen? Sixteen? I’ll eat my favorite pair of Prada heels if there isn’t a little rebellion stewing in there.”

“Alright. But what’s in it for _me_?” Cas asks tiredly. It’s not like he had a lunch to eat, but he still didn’t want to spend the time hearing about some sad sophomore’s home drama. “Not to be crass, but it sounds like money will be changing hands.”

Bela smirks.

“It will be. And some of it will end up in yours, either way.”

“Exactly how much is ‘some of it,’ Bela, because this all sounds tedious as fuck.”

“So. Crowley wins if he rejects you — which he’ll do if you approach him outright. For every week he does _not_ reject you, Crowley pays you one hundred dollars. Once you get a love confession out of him—"

“ _If,_ Talbot, _if—"_

“Whatever; _if_ you get a love confession out of him, I will give you two thousand.”

Shit. That’s . . . _so much money._ It’s not like Cas’s family is poor, but his parents never got over him getting kicked out of Catholic school, and as he understands it, ‘allowance’ is the last thing they want to give him.

In their defense, he does like to spend whatever pocket money he comes by on weed, so.

“Well, what’s to stop me from doing nothing and collecting from Crowley?”

“Ah, yes. You must provide proof at the end of each week that you’re making good progress.”

“Right. Define ‘good progress’ for me?”

“Gabe will judge.”

“Gabe thinks a dick pic is an appropriate casual greeting.”

“It’s interested, but impersonal. Perfect,” Gabe defends.

“See?”

“Gabriel has agreed to take this seriously. He _does_ know better, he just chooses to pretend he doesn’t.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So? Are you going to do it?”

Cas thinks about it. On the one hand, it’s kind of a dick move to knowingly try and fuck with this kid’s life. If he _is_ interested in giving the rainbow a taste, he’d probably do better to wait until he’s out from under his father’s thumb; and even if he isn’t, if Cas gets caught trying to tempt him, it could still cause the guy problems.

 _But,_ on the other hand, it’s not like Dean doesn’t already have problems with his dad. And also, two-fucking-thousand-dollars, just for — what? Passing some soppy notes and exchanging quick kisses on the playground?

He frowns.

“I’m not sleeping with him.”

“That’s part of a seduction, Castiel,” Crowley objects. “Who’s to say kisses aren’t just some sordid little experiment?”

“You asked for a love confession. I can get that without sleeping with him, and no man ever confessed his love as an experiment.”

Gabe opens his mouth to protest, but Bela holds up a hand.

“Is this your conscience, Cas? Because if it is, I may revise my stance—"

“God, no. I haven’t heard from my conscience in longer than you’ve heard from that Aunt who supposedly has custody of you.”

Bela’s parents passed away in an accident five years ago, and her guardianship passed to her mother’s sister as a result; Bela confided recently that she still hasn’t met her.

“Then what appears to be the problem?”

“Uh, the kid’s what — fifteen? I turned eighteen last week. I’m not going to prison for feeling up a minor.”

“As if you’d go to prison—"

“Really? You think if John Winchester catches me bad-touching his son, he’s not going to try and ruin my life?”

Bela sniffs.

“Fine. But we want proof of the love confession. And it can’t be some weird, jokey, ‘I love you.’ I want to hear it with my own ears.”

Cas sighs.

“Fine. I’ll figure something out.”

“So — we have a deal?” She smiles beatifically, sticking out a hand.

He shakes it, halfway regretting this already. _Two thousand dollars,_ he reminds himself. Never mind what Crowley will end up paying him. He doesn’t even want to _know_ what the two of them have riding on this.

“Yeah, yeah. We have a deal.”

“Hi.”

Dean is minding his own business in the library, frowning his way through _Crime & Punishment, _when a deep, gravelly voice addresses him, a shadow falling across his table.

Dean knows who it is without looking up.

The thing is, Castiel Novak — or Casanovak, as Dean’s heard him called — has never spoken to him. Why would he? Dean is two grades behind him and also a certified nerd, despite the mostly inactive position he occupies on the football team, and Dean’s okay with that. He’s okay with Novak not knowing he exists, because honestly, they have nothing in common.

But that doesn’t mean Dean’s _oblivious_ ; even if Novak didn’t kind of stand out, with his black boots and skinny jeans, and shocking blue eyes, and messy dark hair, and — well, anyway, Dean would have heard about him. A popular mystery for the student body to discuss is whether said messy dark hair is, on any given day, disheveled from natural forces or teased into a haphazard nest through some naughty exploit or other. If Novak were a girl, he’d be unfairly called ‘easy,’ but the last person to try and start something with him couldn’t come to school for days, so the gossip surrounding him either avoids too much judgment or avoids happening anywhere he can hear it.

Not that most people are judgey; there are the usual assholes who are a little uncomfortable that the dude’s sexploits involve just as many boys as girls, but mostly, the other students are in awe of him, either because they wish they were that badass or they wish they could take responsibility for that sty he calls hair.

So, yeah. Dean knows about Castiel Novak, and he’s heard him talk before, shouting at his friends across the hallway, or muttering to them in an assembly once where Dean had ended up right behind them, and it’s a pretty unforgettable voice. Dean happens to be caught in that frustrating in-between state of puberty, with a very unreliable range, himself, but even so, Novak’s voice is unmistakable. Nobody, not any of the seniors, or even the guys Dad plays poker with once a week, sound like Castiel.

He dares to look up, and yup — soulful blue eyes stare down at him, expression blandly innocent.

Dean is, of course, immediately suspicious.

“Hey.” Novak smiles, not breaking his stare, and Dean’s hackles raise. This can’t possibly be anything good. Novak’s not known for being a bully — honestly, you have to work to get him to pay attention to you, no matter what kind of attention that is — but for a split second, Dean wonders if this exchange ends with Novak shoving him against a wall and demanding the contents of his pockets.

He grips his book a little harder.

“Dean, right?” Jesus, does he chain-smoke? Gargle rocks? Scream himself hoarse every ni-nope, nope, Dean’s not gonna think about that. Or about how his own name sounds in that voice, because it — it’s _irrelevant,_ is what it is.

“Uh. Yeah.” What is this? What’s even happening here? God damn it, he knew he should have gone with Charlie to the computer labs for study hall; it’s just that _Crime and Punishment_ is proving somewhat difficult to get through, and Dad wants him to practice his throwing after school, and he’s got to make sure Sam gets dinner, and—

“Castiel.” And then there’s a hand, palm slightly upturned, fingers elegant. Dean stares at it, then back up at Novak — at _Castiel —_ who looks expectant. Mild. _Non-threatening._

Klaxons shriek painfully in Dean’s ears as he grips the hand firmly, not about to back down from what _has_ to be some kind of challenge.

“Castiel. Nice to meet you.” Castiel’s smile widens, and Dean has half a mind to bolt from the table without a word, challenge be damned. “So, what brings you here? You need the table?”

Castiel blinks, glancing around.

There are about seven empty tables in sight, and Dean turns red.

He really, _really_ should have gone to the computer labs.

“Uh. No. Thank you. I was looking for you, actually.”

Oh, god, no. This is bad. Dean doesn’t want to hear the punchline to this joke, because he’s pretty sure he must be the butt of it.

“Is that right?” His voice cracks a little on the last word, like it does nowadays, and he would give his favorite, still-in-plastic Batman comic to be sitting at a computer with Chuckles in this moment.

“Yeah.” And then Castiel slides into the seat next to Dean, smooth as anything, so they’re mostly eye-level, even if he’s still taller than Dean. “I heard you were the guy to see if I wanted a hookup.”

All of the air vacates Dean’s lungs. This is definitely some kind of sick, twisted joke, because Dean might not pay attention — much. Mostly — but he does know that the last time Castiel hooked up with a sophomore, he _was_ one, and even if Castiel ran out of seniors and juniors, Dean sure as hell wouldn’t be the sophomore he started with. Not that he _can —_ start with Dean, that is — because Dean doesn’t — he wouldn’t—

“For D&D,” Castiel adds, blinking innocently, and Dean’s heart attack settles down to harrowing palpitations.

“For — D&D,” he manages.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees patiently.

“Uh. I’m actually not —" he croaks, and clears his throat. “Charlie. She’s the DM.”

Castiel pulls a face.

“The BM?”

“What? No — dude — the DM. Delta Mike.” Castiel’s face melts into understanding, and Dean continues. “It means Dungeon Master. So, um, if you wanted to play, you should — y’know. Ask her.”

This is a lie, actually, because Charlie would be happy to include any of Dean’s friends, but Castiel is not his friend. And the idea of badass punk Castiel Novak watching Dean and his buddies sit around a table roleplaying is just — he just -

Castiel is giving him a disbelieving look.

“She’s — you call her the Dungeon Master?”

“Yeah? It means she like, presides over the game, sort of.”

“Right.” He blinks. “Sounds . . . reasonable.”

They look at each other for what feels like about five full minutes before Dean realizes he’s staring. Which shouldn’t be that embarrassing, because Castiel is staring back, but still, Dean feels like he’s being the weird one.

He looks at his book.

“Right. So, yeah. You can talk to her. I think she’s in the computer labs,” he adds, feeling a stab of satisfaction at sending this peculiar brand of hell Charlie’s way.

“Oh.” Dean stares hard at the same word on the page, waiting for Castiel to leave, but the presence beside him remains.

Mustering his courage, he throws Castiel a pointed look.

“You gonna . . . go do that?”

“Hm? Oh, no, I don’t think so. Not today. That’s a long way to walk.”

“Not for _you,_ ” Dean retorts, totally calling bullshit, because in addition to hearing a lot of rumors about Castiel, he’s also seen him jogging through the neighborhood at ass-o-clock in the morning while Dean’s trying to finish whatever homework he fell asleep on while he makes breakfast for Sammy. He sees him so often that he wonders if Castiel is just too anti-establishment to join the fucking track team, if he likes running so much.

Castiel raises his eyebrow.

“What’s that mean?”

Dean reddens, turning back to his book. Of course Castiel wouldn’t know that Dean peers out at him through the curtains like some creepy old man fretting over his lawn.

“Just — I’ve seen you around some mornings, runnin'.’”

“Uh-huh.” A slow smile spreads across Castiel’s face, and he tilts his head. That’s not a fucking gleam Dean sees in his stupid blue eyes. Nope. Definitely not. “You watch me run?”

Dean sputters. That is absolutely _not_ what he said.

(He’s pretty sure.)

“Wh-no, I don’t — I don’t _watch_ you, just — I said I’d seen you. Sometimes.”

Castiel shrugs.

“Well, I’m not sure if you _saw_ me, but I ran this morning.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And I’m tired. I don’t feel like walking now.”

“Okay, so don’t. Just trying to help you out,” Dean snaps, nerves frayed beyond recognition.

Castiel’s expression softens, and he brings his elbow onto the table.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Dean shrugs, scowling down at his book, because for whatever reason, looking at Castiel’s face makes him stupid.

Castiel sighs next to him.

“ _Crime and Punishment,_ ” he muses. “Enjoying it?”

_Not if you keep fucking talking to me._

Dean grits his teeth.

“Not really. Feels like I’m being told he’s not totally terrible, which, fine, except _he killed two people._ With an axe! I don’t buy it.”

“That is a pretty compelling argument,” Castiel agrees, smiling. “I think the idea is that he struggled, once he realized what he’d done. He was in desperate straits; the book suggests he didn’t grasp the ramifications of it all until it was over with, and he could find no peace until he answered for his crime.”

“Doesn’t change anything.”

Castiel raises a brow.

“No? You don’t believe in redemption?”

“I do. But some things you don’t come back from, no matter how you try to make it up.”

Castiel studies him.

“Fair enough,” he says, and then _somehow,_ they’re stuck in a freaky staring match all over again, and Dean could cry with relief when the bell rings. He snaps the book shut and is out of the chair in seconds.

Castiel just watches him the whole time, blue eyes intent, then rises from the chair with unmistakable reluctance.

“See you around, Dean. Let me know how you like the book.”

And even though Dean stood up first, desperate to leave the library and get away from Castiel’s uncanny stare and — and _suggestive_ conversation—

Somehow he’s the one left standing there, watching Castiel Novak walk away.

It takes two days for Dean to cave.

The first day, he tells himself it’s up to Charlie and Novak (Castiel, whatever). He’ll worry about it if and when the guy shows up to one of their games. He doesn’t care, either way.

Of course, he also spends the first day repeatedly going over the baffling interchange and experiencing agonizing daydreams — day nightmares? — about all the ways such a game would proceed with Castiel present. He has the terrifying thought of _what if Charlie asks me to teach him to play, to get him ready?_ and spends about two hours panicking over that scenario before he remembers that Charlie wouldn’t ask him to do that. She knows how busy Dean is.

The second day, he feels like he spends the first three periods with his mouth half open, the question bubbling up in his throat only to die on his tongue.

It finally makes it out at lunch.

He waits fifteen minutes, lets the conversation meander naturally — at least, he thinks he does; he’s barely paying attention — before he takes a large bite of his PB&J and, as casually as he can, delivers his query during the last of his chewing.

“So, Charlie,” he starts, then swallows, pausing to lick around his teeth where the peanut butter tends to cling. “That Novak kid ever talk to you?”

Charlie’s potato chip doesn’t make it into her mouth.

“I’m sorry, what? Did you just — refer to Castiel Novak as ‘that Novak kid’? Like he’s not two years older than us and twice your size?”

“Hey,” Dean barks — except not, because his goddamn voice isn’t quite there yet — and glares at her. “He’s not _twice_ my size. And I’m due for a growth spurt any time now, okay? My mom was like, five-eight. There’s no way I’m gonna be short.”

He hopes.

“Sure, Dean, but it hasn’t happened yet. And hey, hold up — why would Novak talk to _me?_ And why would you know about it?”

“Uh. ‘Cause he talked to me, first.”

Charlie’s eyes widen.

“Um?! Why would Novak talk to _you?_ ”

“Same reason I told him to go find _you_ ,” he retorts, sharp. “He wants to play D&D. Hell if I know why.”

“O-kay, _that’s_ not totally and completely random. Seriously? Are you sure he wasn’t playing a prank?”

_No._

“Dude doesn’t really go around pranking people. I think that’s beneath him. That short guy he hangs out with, though—"

“Yeah, super don’t care about that right now. When was this?”

Dean carefully shrugs.

“Dunno, couple days ago?”

“Couple d-what the hell, Dean?” She punches him in the shoulder. “ _Why_ am I just now hearing about this?”

“’Cause I thought he was gonna go talk to you, okay? It wasn’t a big deal.”

Charlie just narrows her eyes.

“Conversation. Verbatim. Now.”

“That sounds like the stupid chant in one of those shitty electro—"

“ _Dean._ ”

“Fine! I don’t remember it exactly, but I was catching up on my reading in the library, and Castiel showed up and asked about D&D, so I told him to go talk to you.”

“And then he just — left?”

 _No,_ Dean recalls bitterly. He _should_ have just left. But he didn’t. And Dean has no idea why.

“Uh. He asked about my book.”

Charlie blinks.

“Holy shit. So when you said he talked to you, he — he like, _talked_ to you. Like a conversation.”

“I guess?”

“And then he failed to come talk to me about the thing that he said he came to talk to _you_ about?”

Dean screws up his face.

“Yeeeeah?”

She stares at the table, awestruck.

“That is so _weird._ ”

“ _Right_? That’s what I thought! Jesus, it’s been killin’ me for two days,” he blurts out, and she gives him a sharp look.

“Of course. ‘Not a big deal’ my ass.”

Coloring, he stares down at the plastic wrap, streaky with peanut butter and jelly, that previously held his sandwich.

“Shut up.”

“I get it, though. Like, _I’m_ gonna be up all night wondering _._ I mean — what did he want from you?”

And that? That’s the million-dollar question. Because _sure,_ it’s possible Castiel Novak got a random hankering to play Dungeons & Dragons with a bunch of nerdy sophomores, enough to hunt Dean down in study hall, only to promptly decide it wasn’t that urgent, after all, or perhaps even changed his mind—

But it’s unlikely.

Which means that’s not what he was after.

Which means maybe he _did_ want something from Dean.

Which _means —_ Dean’s totally screwed.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean nearly pisses himself.

He doesn’t — awesome — but he does turn so fast, halfway out of his gym shirt, that he bangs his elbow into the locker, so. You know; less awesome.

“Um, uh,” he stammers, trying to decide whether to finish pulling his shirt off or just tug it back down.

He ends up doing the latter, because Castiel runs without a shirt in the summer, and while Dean has some pretty damn decent definition, that doesn’t change the fact that he’s small and covered in freckles and yeah, no way in hell does he want Castiel making any comparisons.

He clears his throat, meeting those impossibly blue eyes. Which were totally watching his little clothing-dance just now. Freakin’ A.

“’Sup, Novak,” he manages coolly. Sort of. The first syllable comes out a little wheezy.

The barely-there smile Castiel showed up with turns into a barely-there frown.

“Castiel,” he murmurs.

“Uh. Right. Castiel.” Dean’s face feels so fucking _hot,_ he’s surprised his ears aren’t melting off his head from proximity. If Castiel keeps showing up to ambush him with awkward small-talk, Dean may actually transform into a tomato-person. Which, when he tries to visualize it, just puts him in mind of a pokemon, so _yeah,_ Castiel’s gonna turn him into a goddamn pokemon, and not even a badass one like Zapados. No, it’ll be some fruity little vegetable thing whose most impressive attack is probably ‘ketchup.’

Whatever that would be. Ew.

Castiel’s smiling again for some reason, and it makes Dean even more nervous. He opens his mouth to say something — _anything —_ but Castiel beats him to it.

“Actually. You should call me Cas. Most people do.”

Maybe anyone who dares to speak to him does, but no, most people do not.

But _fine,_ Dean can do that.

“Okay. Cas.”

Cas looks downright pleased, eyes going warm as they start a slow descent over — wait, what, _what,_ why is he looking Dean over, and when Dean’s in his PE uniform, no less, god _damn_ it—

“Nice shorts,” Cas remarks casually, and _screw_ this guy, his eyes aren’t even close to being on Dean’s shorts.

Dean nearly whimpers from embarrassment. Castiel Novak is staring at his legs. His _legs._ His stupid, short, scrawny bow legs, that no amount of football drills and jogs around the field will turn into anything even remotely worth looking at.

But that’s not stopping Cas. Nope, Cas’s gaze lingers somewhere around Dean’s calves for a small fucking eternity before _finally,_ they slip back to Dean’s face.

“Are you even in a PE class?” Dean blurts out, and then wants to stuff _himself_ into his locker, just to get away from this situation.

Cas blinks, and then ducks his head, chuckling.

“No.”

“Okay. You lost?”

Amusement dances in his eyes as he looks back at Dean.

“No. I found what I was looking for.”

Dean takes a deep breath, deciding not to think too hard about how to interpret that.

“Okay, well, I’m happy for you, but I gotta get changed, so.”

“Oh. I apologize.”

And then, to Dean’s relief, Cas takes a step back, so all Dean has to do is wait for him to turn around and go away so Dean can finish changing in p—

Cas takes a seat on the bench opposite him, bracing himself on his hands and leaning back.

Like he’s — like he’s gonna—

“You — you — you can’t _watch_ me!” Dean sputters.

Cas raises both brows, looking genuinely confused.

“I won’t watch you.”

Dean gapes.

“I may happen to _see_ you, though.”

Oh, no. Oh, _hell,_ no, Cas can’t just — reference the one other conversation they had, especially not one about Dean’s nosy window-peeping habits, like it’s an excuse to fucking sit back and watch Dean take off his clothes. And — and then put other ones _on._

Why would he even _want_ to, for that matter?

Cas blinks innocently, as if Dean’s horror wasn’t written all over his face.

“We’re all boys here, are we not?”

“That — that is — _not the point._ ”

And then — he gets the freaking head tilt. Dean’s seen it before, heard girls giggle about how it’s kind of _cute,_ heard others complain that in tandem with that unfathomable stare, it’s goddamn _uncomfortable —_ but he’s never been on the receiving end, himself, and he’s disturbed to find that _all those people were right._

“Oh. Is it because of my . . . _preferences_? Does my presence make you uncomfortable?”

“Uh, _yeah,_ your presence makes me uncomfortable — because I don’t like people _staring_ at me while I _change._ I couldn’t care less about your preferences, jesus.”

Dean suddenly realizes, then, that he’s being his aggressively grumpy self with _Castiel Novak,_ and maybe it’d be a good idea to cool it so he doesn’t end up bleeding on the floor, but he doesn’t get a chance to backpedal.

Castiel’s brows are halfway up his forehead, and in the next instant, he’s positively _beaming._

“I suppose I can understand that. Very well. I’ll leave you to it.”

And then, with a casual nod, he gracefully lifts himself off the bench and saunters right out of the locker room.

The empty locker room, which is empty now, because—

The bell rings, and Dean lets his forehead fall against his locker with a smack.

Castiel Novak is gonna be the death of him.

Cas can’t stop grinning.

Or he can, for about fifteen or twenty minutes, but then he thinks back on prickly Dean Winchester and the grin is back.

See, Cas would never have surprised Dean in the locker room like that if not for how well their first meeting had gone. He’d been utterly delighted to hear that Dean apparently liked to watch him run (Cas _could_ give him the benefit of doubt and assume Dean sincerely just ‘saw’ him around sometimes, but the guilty look in his eye and the blush on his cheeks would make it a pointless gesture); and he’d been even _more_ delighted to provoke Dean into red-faced stammering, despite all that adorable bravado.

Because _clearly,_ whatever his father’s opinions may be, Dean was definitely _not_ unaffected by Cas.

And sure, it could be that all the awkwardness was due to Castiel’s reputation around school, especially relative to Dean’s, but this was the one type of social interaction Cas was reasonably confident in, and instinct told him Dean was at least _aware._

And today? Today just confirmed it.

Cas wishes he’d had a camera for the moment Dean realized he was checking out his legs; as it was, he’d only been able to enjoy it from his peripheral. And actually, it wasn’t even that hard to feign interest. Cas had been expecting shapeless chicken legs or something like that, but Dean’s, though a little gangly, also showed clear signs of athleticism; his calves may not have been as sizable as most of the football team’s, but they were plenty shapely and defined.

And the bow legs, of course, were fucking _adorable._

But that shouldn’t be a surprise. Really, the only surprise here is that Dean himself is kind of adorable. He reminds Cas of an angry cat, which wouldn’t be a good thing, except Cas _like_ _s_ cats, a lot, and even if they’re easily-riled up and kind of standoffish, people still choose them as companions for a reason.

Although — Dean wasn’t exactly _standoffish._ Even when he was snapping at Cas, he was so — so _engaged._ There didn’t seem to be a single emotion he felt that didn’t then cross his face, no matter how fleeting. His expressions seemed to extend through his entire body, and to be honest, Castiel had found himself a little fascinated by it all.

Really, he’d expected this bet to be a chore, to be too easy, or even impossible.

He hadn’t expected it to be _fun_. He hadn’t expected to zone out in his classes, making plans for the next time he’d see Dean. He hadn’t expected to be looking forward to it, possibly even as much as he was looking forward to the hundred bucks Crowley’d be giving him at the end of the week.

And yet, here he is.

Except, come to think of it, ‘here’ is already Thursday, and while Cas certainly feels like he’s made progress, he’s going to have to deliver something a little more concrete if he wants his money.

He smiles to himself again, thinking of Dean awkwardly pulling his shirt back down.

Well, it shouldn’t be _too_ hard, should it?

Dean practically flings himself out of his seat at the last bell, nimbly darting past his slower fellows in an effort to make it into the main hall in time to track down one of his teammates and follow them to the locker room for practice, because he’s a little afraid to be alone in there now.

He was prepared to surreptitiously tag along after Walt or one of the senior douchebags, but he’s pleased to run into Benny coming out of the East wing almost as soon as he makes it there.

“Somebody chasin’ you, brother?”

“What? No. No, just — in a hurry to get to practice.”

“Uh-huh.” Benny looks amused, but one of the things Dean likes most about Benny is that he’s not really nosy. Or maybe he is nosy — the dude loves gossip just as much as Charlie, for sure — but he’ll never press an issue to get it.

And Dean never wants to tell anyone, ever, about the Locker Room Incident.

(The hair on the back of his neck pricks just _thinking_ about Cas’s eyes moving over his legs.)

They make it halfway to the lockers before Benny nudges him.

“I’ll be damned, chief — I swear little Casanovak over there is starin’ right at you.”

Only Benny, already sixteen and already almost six feet tall and _massive_ (hence his position on the team, even though John doesn’t really like him for some unidentifiable reason) would dare call Cas Novak ‘little.’

Anyway, Dean’s not going to look. He _refuses_ to look. In fact, Cas probably isn’t even actually looking at him, to begin with, so—

He looks.

Cas meets his eyes and winks.

Dean surges forward, practically dragging Benny along, and it takes a few seconds for him to process the soft chuckles coming from his friend as they move.

“Hey, what are _you_ laughing ab—” He stops, then grimaces. “Charlie told you, didn’t she?”

“It was mighty interesting stuff; can you blame her?”

Dean sighs. He hadn’t said _not_ to.

“Anyway,” Benny continues. “I don’t s’pose that’s the reason you’re scurryin' to practice like a frightened mouse?”

“’Course not,” Dean mutters, staring angrily into the crowd of students as they move through it.

“Uh-huh. Awful sensitive. If I didn’t know any better, I’d reckon your boy back there came around a second time.”

Dean is silent, though he’s sure the fire in his cheeks speaks volumes.

“But that’d be a lil’ bit weird, come to think of it, on account of how Charlie ain’t heard a word from him yet.

“Oh, shut up, Benny. _Yes_ , he did talk to me again, and no, I don’t know what he wants from me, but I sure as hell don’t wanna find out. Are we going or are we going?”

Benny throws him a lazy smirk.

“Lead the way, brother.”

After practice finds Dean crouched a few yards away from the entrance, tucked inconspicuously between a bench and some kind of berry bush as he waits for his little brother to get out of Math Club. For the first time, he wishes he had to walk over and wait at the middle school, but Math Club is a collaboration between Junior and Senior high, so here he is, hiding next to the bushes and praying certain people aren’t still skulking around and won’t notice him even if they are.

Anyway, eventually, Sam exits the building, a skinny blonde chick about half a foot taller than him at his side, and Dean glances around quickly before darting over, seizing his brother’s arm.

“Hey Sammy. Sammy’s friend,” Dean adds, nodding at the blonde before returning his gaze to his brother. “You ready to go?”

“Well, actually, Jess and I have a science report we have to work on, and she thought we could do it at her house. Her mom’s making lasagna for dinner.”

Dean blinks. Sam fixes him with a significant, pleading look in response, and Dean glances back at Jess. He supposes she’s a good-looking girl, if you were eleven and didn’t mind braces, which would explain the intense edge to Sam’s stare.

 _Do_ not _embarrass me, Dean._

“Oh. Yeah, yeah sure. Um, just — I need a phone number and an address. And you’re sure its cool with her parents?”

“It’s just her mom, and Jess already called and asked,” Sam says, proudly presenting a sheet of paper with a phone number and address written in neat, unfamiliar print.

“Okay. Yeah, alright. Um, what about getting home . . .?”

“Her mom said she could drive me.”

“Oh. Okay, that sounds . . . good. I’ll let Dad know.” He’s pretty sure John won’t care; Dad is about fifty times less strict with Sam’s time than with Dean’s, and even then, once practice is done with and he’s hassled Dean about his homework and dinner, he usually checks out or goes out with his buddies. “Have fun. Make sure you get some work done.”

“Of course, Dean,” Sam responds enthusiastically, and beside him, Jess gives Dean a pretty adorable grin.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Winchester!” she chirps, and then she’s dragging Sam away while Dean tries to parse the horror of being called ‘Mr. Winchester.’

And then he remembers he’s a sitting duck out there, and while Cas Novak is not, to the best of his knowledge, part of any after-school clubs, Dean has seen him hanging around campus with his friends after the final bell enough times to be afraid.

He turns, ready to make a mad dash through the parking lot to start walking home, but the way is blocked.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean yelps.

“Jesus _christ,_ Cas, wear a bell!”

Cas frowns, cocking his head.

“Do I look like a cow to you?”

Dean looks at him, with his disastrous hair and big eyes and all the lean, graceful lines of his body, and the clear answer is _no._ To be honest, watching Cas saunter around school, or having him peer down at Dean with that unnerving, predatory glint in his eye — and even the silently-sneaking-up-on-him — it all kind of makes Dean think more along the lines of _cat._

Not that Dean’s about to say that, of course. He prefers to keep his ass unbeat, and what guy ever wanted somebody out there thinking they’re like a goddamn cat?

“No,” he mumbles, inching back. Cas makes up the distance with a slight body shift, casual as you please, like he doesn’t even know what he’s doing.

“Then I can probably do without the bell. So, what are you up to?”

“Uh. Just — finished football practice.” Football is Dean’s lone claim to not-being-a-complete-nerd, but he swears Cas’s eyes glaze over as soon as the word is out of his mouth.

“Ah.” A barely-there smile appears, starting in Cas’s eyes and pulling one corner of his lips up. “That explains the calves.”

Dean kind of wants to cry. Fortunately, Cas doesn’t expect an answer. The smile subsequently blossoms to a grin, and then:

“Well, if you’re finished, let’s go somewhere,” he says, gesturing to a suspect-looking gold Continental parked in the lot.

“Uh?” Dean wonders what ‘somewhere’ means, trying to picture it; all that comes up are leaf-strewn hills deep in the woods, or ravines alongside infrequently-used back roads, or a dozen other stereotypical body-dumping sites. “Like. What do you mean?”

“I mean we — that’s you and I — should go somewhere. Get something to eat.”

“Together?”

“No, I was going to drive you, and then we were going to eat separately.”

Oh. Well, that’s still weird, but slightly more reasonable.

Cas frowns at him, apparently sensing his thoughts.

“That was sarcasm, Dean. Yes. We’re going to eat together — if you’d like.”

“Oh.” Dean clears his throat. “Gee, Cas, I would, except I — I’ve gotta get dinner for Sam—"

“Sam? Your little brother?”

Dean nods eagerly.

“The boy who just came and told you he was going to his friend’s house for dinner?”

Dean swallows.

“You heard th—I mean. I forgot. Sorry. Habit.”

Cas tilts his head — and then suddenly, he’s moving closer into Dean’s space, peering into his eyes. Dean should retreat, except he’s never been one to back down from a fight, and even if he was, Cas’s wide blue eyes have some kind of a paralytic effect on him.

“Dean. Are you trying to get rid of me?”

Dean gulps.

“What?”

“Because if you are,” Cas says, straightening, only to step even closer, face inches from Dean’s. “I’ll leave you alone. Just tell me.”

And here it is. An offer of relief from this strange, nerve-wracking harassment, from obsessive analysis and endless confusion, a chance to return to his (mostly) peaceful, (kind of) happy existence — a chance to never worry about Castiel Novak again.

He doesn’t take it.

“Uh, no, no, it’s not — _that,_ I just . . .” he trails off, trying to remember if he’s blinked at all since Cas caught his gaze. Jesus, his eyes are so _blue._ “You’re fine.”

Cas studies him, eyes roving over Dean’s face, before he smiles.

“Good. Then let’s find somewhere to eat.”

And then he slings his arm around Dean’s shoulders, warm and way too close, and Dean allows himself to be guided to Castiel’s car in a complete stupor.

Dean is silent the entire drive to Missouri’s Diner, and it’s boring Cas.

Still, he figures it’s only reasonable to give the kid time to adjust. As amusing as it is that Dean seems moments away from a heart attack whenever they speak, Cas isn’t completely cruel.

He draws the line at eating in silence, though. While he prefers absolute quiet to being at home, hearing a tedious rundown of his many siblings’ incredibly dull school days, he still doesn’t _enjoy_ it.

He lets Dean go ahead of him, sliding into one end of the booth, and then follows him in.

Dean stiffens.

“W-what are you—"

“The sun is shining directly on the other side,” Cas explains breezily, settling in with purpose and leaving Dean about twenty inches of his own space as he does so.

He blinks innocently in response to Dean’s outraged look, half-expecting the other boy to actually hiss at him.

“Fine,” Dean mutters instead, snatching his menu off the table and clutching it like it’s a string of pearls.

Cas flips his own open, hiding a grin.

A couple of minutes pass, and when Cas checks on him next, he finds him frowning at the menu.

“Having trouble deciding?”

“What? Oh. Uh, yeah. Haven’t been here in a few months.” Dean clears his throat. “You come here often?”

Castiel sets his menu down at that, positively enchanted as he waits for Dean to realize what he just said.

“Shit, I mean — you know. I — I just—"

“Mm. Yes. Well,” he amends, smirking. “Often enough to know their menu hasn’t changed in three years.”

Dean huffs, angrily turning the laminated page.

“Yeah, well, I forgot.”

Their server chooses that moment to slide into the seat opposite, pen and pad on the table, eyes bright and interested.

“Well, hey there stranger. Strangers,” the older girl — Pamela, if Cas recalls — adds, nodding at him, but eyes Dean with unabashed interest. “Where’s that little brother of yours?”

“He’s having dinner at Jess’s house,” Castiel supplies helpfully, and Dean glowers at him, then reluctantly agrees.

“What he said.”

“Ah, so you’ve got the night off.” She grins at Castiel. “Now, _you_ I’ve seen around plenty, but never with Deano here.”

Castiel smiles back, recognizing the question for what it is, but says nothing.

She raises a brow, then chuckles.

“Alright, then. I guess I’d better get your order, and leave you two to your . . .”

Dean narrows his eyes.

“’Our?’” he repeats, an edge to the word. Pamela smiles.

“Your outing.”

Cas almost corrects her, almost calls it a date, just to see Dean’s reaction—

But he’s pretty sure his amusement would be short-lived. Pamela seems like a cool girl, but Cas suspects going around town telling people they’re on dates — a tale that would no doubt find its way back to his Dad eventually — would prompt Dean to immediately tell him to get lost.

No, he has to build up to that. (He fully intends to get there, though.)

“Uh-huh.” Dean still looks suspicious, and Pamela laughs softly, reaching over to squeeze his hand. Dean rolls his eyes, but squeezes back, and Cas watches the exchange curiously.

“Okay, grumpy. You want your usual?”

At that, Cas straightens, throwing Dean a look.

“You have a usual?”

“Oh, yes,” Pamela agrees, heedless of Dean’s agitation. “This guy here’s ordered the same thing for the last ten years.”

Dean is beet-red at this point, and carefully avoiding Cas’s gaze.

“Shut up, Pam. You didn’t even work here ten years ago.”

Pamela grins.

“I practically lived here ten years ago, not unlike you, kiddo.”

“Don’t call me—" Dean catches himself with a fleeting glance at Cas, then slumps in his seat. “Damn it, Pam, just — let the guy order, okay?”

She lifts both hands, eyes twinkling.

“Fine. We can reminisce about old times later, if you insist. We were pretty damn cute kids,” she muses, and then winks at Cas. “Well, I guess you still are, Dean.”

Dean huffs.

“Cas, tell the lady what you want so she’ll leave.”

Cas smiles pleasantly.

“I’ll just have his usual, as well. I also would like to be alone with Dean, if you don’t mind.”

There’s a strangled ‘hngh’ noise from beside him, but Pamela beams back.

“Oh, I see. I can take a hint. Two number eights, comin’ up. Should be out in ten or fifteen. You boys enjoy your alone time.” She gets to her feet, and then pauses. “But remember you’re in public, you hear?”

And then she’s sashaying away, Dean glaring speechlessly after her.

Cas stretches his neck casually.

“What’s in a number eight, anyway?”

Dean just leans forward, resting his forehead against the table, and sighs.

Dinner’s actually pretty fun, once Dean settles down (though to be fair, Cas was totally being a little shit on purpose).

It’s ten minutes of stilted conversation, Cas changing tactics from trying to goad him to trying to engage him, only to be met with monosyllabic suspicion for his efforts, but eventually he manages to thaw Dean with questions about Sam. Dean’s face — his whole being — lights up when he talks about his little brother, and Cas doesn’t mind just listening, content to watch Dean’s emphatic gesturing as he catches Cas up on what is effectively Sam’s entire school career. He learns, also, that Sam is a giant nerd. And a giant girl. And, apparently, a giant bitch; given the affection with which Dean elaborates on these traits, however, Cas suspects Dean means them positively.

“So, then, what was the deal with the blonde, today?” Cas asks, once Dean falls quiet, chuckling over a story he just told about Sam at his Uncle Bobby’s auto shop, tearing a customer a new one after hearing him yell at Bobby. Cas winced sympathetically when Dean confirmed Bobby’s fury, but laughed along with Dean; Sam’s apparently overdeveloped sense of justice might get him into trouble on occasion, but Cas, apathetic though he tends to be, is hard put not to admire it.

He thinks, idly, of Dean, shouting back at his father on Charlie’s behalf, and wonders if Sam owes the quality to blood, or his brother’s influence.

Dean hums at the question, a slow grin appearing.

“I dunno, Cas. On the one hand, she’s about twice his size, but on the other hand, you saw his puppy eyes.” Dean arches a brow at him, mirth in his gaze. “What do you _think_ the deal is?”

Cas looks back, and it takes him a moment to answer. For the first time, he finds himself looking into Dean’s eyes — _really_ looking — and somehow, the bright gold-green of them is a surprise.

Dean cocks his head, forehead creasing, and begins to worry his bottom lip, drawing Cas’s gaze there, next. He feels bad, suddenly; he’s spent three days plotting to take down his quarry, so to speak, and aside from a thorough examination of his legs, has failed to really, _truly_ look at him.

“Uh, Cas?”

Cas blinks.

“I think he’s smitten,” he murmurs absently, and Dean’s mouth falls open a little, those eyes going wide. Cas should have a plan in this moment, some direction he wants to take this, but his brain feels weirdly muddled.

A plate rattles across the table, Pamela cheerfully announcing her arrival and breaking the moment.

“Two number eights, extra onions, extra jalapenos, fries on the side. You boys want anything besides water? Coke?”

“Can I get a glass of milk?” Dean asks, wincing as his voice squeaks on ‘glass’ and Cas turns to frown at his plate, thoughtful. Pamela has already bustled away, Dean determinedly tucking into his burger, before Cas manages to reorient himself.

“Milk?” he echoes belatedly, lips quirking.

Dean flushes.

“I’m s’posed to drink like, a gallon a day, according to Dad.” He sighs. “As if it’ll somehow make me grow six inches and put on thirty pounds of muscle.”

Cas smiles.

“You’re bound to grow. You work out, I assume? For the team? You do something for your legs, at the very least,” he teases, and Dean gives him a sharp look, swallowing.

“Yeah. I do all the drills with the rest of the team, and Dad has me do weights six days of the seven. Still — I’m gonna be sixteen in January and I’m still a freakin’ shrimp. I’m starting to think we shouldn’t get our hopes up.”

Cas takes the opportunity to study Dean, then, in the way he’s failed to. He looks at his face, at the high cheekbones barely discernible beneath the persistent baby-fat, the nose a little too strong, too big, for the rest of his features. Dean has the kind of lashes Bela often says are ‘wasted on men,’ and while it’s true that they probably hurt Dean more than help him, calling shameless attention to those big, pretty eyes, Cas kind of likes the way they frame his gaze, shadowing the abundance of freckles. (The freckles, of course, are another story; Cas would bet real money Dean hates them, but he can’t quite bring himself to.)

As for the rest of him, Cas notes, eyes sweeping over his body critically, he would say with confidence that it holds the same frustrating promise of future development as his face. _When_ that development will begin, Cas couldn’t say, but he suspects it will come. Dean in no way looks finished; just as the stubborn vestiges of childhood linger in his face, there remains a softness to his body and a smallness to his limbs.

Still — that isn’t all there is. Dean has good bones, shoulders that may not be broad compared to his peers or the seniors, but are broad for his frame in its current stage. His waist tapers nicely, and the shape of his musculature is pleasing. His hands are large for his frame, sturdy, and that, probably, is the greatest indicator that no, Dean’s not done yet — has probably barely even gotten started.

“You’ll get there,” Cas assures him, and Dean offers a tired, disbelieving smile in return.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Cas grasps his (surprisingly firm) shoulder.

“No, really. Strength and agility are separate issues, of course, so keep working hard, but as for the rest of it — it’ll happen. Some people are just — what’s the term? Late bloomers.”

Dean sets down his burger, searching Cas’s face for something, though Cas couldn’t say what. His brow dips, a barely-there crease Cas feels inappropriately tempted to poke at.

Instead, he stares evenly back, and Dean huffs a laugh, looking away with a small smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I hope you’re right.”

Dean tries to pay for his share of the meal, but Cas literally seizes both his hands, giving Dean a comically reproachful look, and says, “I asked you to go somewhere with me. I should pay.”

That shuts Dean up, both because Cas has his slender, steely fingers wrapped tight around Dean’s wrists, and also because that’s the same freaking argument people use when it’s a _date,_ and Dean is too flustered to even begin trying to dissect that.

Because this bizarre little diner visit with _Castiel Novak_? Was not a date, no matter what cheeky lines Cas threw Pamela, or how little space there was between the outside of their thighs because Cas thinks he’s a vampire and can’t handle a few goddamn sunbeams, or even how many times Dean’s stupid heart went pitter-patter because Cas looked into his eyes too long or put his hand on his shoulder or reassured his future vanity or any of the crazy shit he kept doing at dinner.

Of course, Dean’s still not even sure what Cas was _doing_ at dinner with Dean, but there’s no way he has enough brain function around the guy to try and figure it out, so he resigns himself to lying awake and obsessing over it later.

So, yeah. Dean shuts up, mind blanking until Cas has let go of his wrists and put his money on the table, and he remains stupidly off-kilter until Pamela pulls him aside as they approach the door. She smirks at Cas, giving him a friendly onceover, and tells him Dean will catch up.

Dean panics a little, irrationally afraid Cas will just drive off and leave him to walk home in the chilly November night, but Cas doesn’t even go out the door; instead, he hovers just inside, blatantly watching Dean and Pamela, and Dean turns away, disturbed.

“Yeah, Pam?” he mutters, stuffing his hands in his pockets. She punches his shoulder lightly.

“Hey, what’s the attitude for?” she accuses, but her tone is amused. He sighs.

He’s known Pamela pretty much his whole life. She’s about five years older than him, and she’s been living with Missouri since her parents died ten years ago. She’s well known for her wild ways and infinite sass, but she’s always had a big heart; she was never too cool to give Dean and Sam the time of day, and if not for the fact that Dean’s uncomfortably aware of how smokin’ hot she grew up to be, he’d say she was like a tough big sister.

“Cas Novak’s tormenting me for no apparent reason,” he explains morosely, and her brows shoot up.

“How do you figure? Looked to me like the two of you were on a date.”

He snorts.

“Dude, guys like him don’t date guys like me. Hell, guys like me could crash one of the cool kid parties and throw themselves at him and he’d just laugh.”

“Hey now, whaddya mean, ‘guys like you’? I’ve never met another guy like you, sweetheart, so don’t sell yourself short like that.”

Dean scoffs. Pam is sweet, but again; big heart. Dean knows he’s nothing special.

She huffs.

“Well, if it’s not a date, then what is it?”

“That’s what I’m telling you! I don’t _know._ This is the third time he’s come around in as many days, and I’ve still got no clue what he wants! It’s not funny, Pam — I’m worried about it!”

She bites her lip, suppressing her chuckles, and gives him a sympathetic look.

“If you say so. But listen, Dean, I wouldn’t worry too much until you know you’ve got something to worry about. Even sexy older boys need friends, okay?”

Dean flushes. _Sexy older boy_ _s_ _._ Cas is certainly one of those, and Pam smiles, bright and smug, like she can read his mind. (He’s pretty sure she can; her and Missouri both.)

“And who knows? Maybe the next one _will_ be a date. Now go on and get home before your dad starts callin’ around, okay? Take care, sugar.”

She leans forward, planting a kiss on his cheek — he tries and fails not to blush — and, to his embarrassment, follows it up with a smack to his ass.

He glowers, but Pamela just laughs, walking away.

Cas, on the other hand, has the beginnings of a frown when Dean makes it back over.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Dean mumbles, pushing the door open and holding it for him. Cas shrugs, folding his arms as soon as he steps out into the chill.

“It’s fine.” He pauses. “That your girlfriend?”

Dean laughs.

“Yeah, right! First of all, Pamela’s twenty, and second of all, she’s freakin’ _awesome;_ I’m pretty sure she has her pick of dudes back at college.”

That light frown deepens.

“Yes, she’s very attractive,” Cas murmurs, a weird tension in his shoulders. From the cold, Dean suspects. The guy needs to wear a damn jacket; all he’s got is long sleeves under his t-shirt. “So — what? A crush, then?”

Dean shoots him a look.

“Um, no? She’s just . . . an old family friend. But no, I’ve got no hopes there. Don’t want ‘em,” he clarifies, and weirdly, the tension eases out of Cas.

“Oh. I see,” he says, sounding weirdly cheerful, but then he unlocks the car, and Dean preoccupies himself with getting in and buckling up.

“Mind if I play some tunes?” Dean asks politely, not wanting to drive home in silence like they had on the way here. Cas nods his assent, starting the car, and Dean reaches for the PLAY button.

 _Super Trooper_ fills the small space, and Cas lunges for the button.

“Uh, that — this — my sister also drives this car,” he says, voice strained in a way Dean has never heard before.

“Does she?” Dean asks dryly, because Cas could just be embarrassed that his sister listens to ABBA, but he could also be embarrassed because he’s _lying through his teeth._

Dean’s positive it’s the latter, and somehow, having some dirt on Cas, no matter how meaningless, makes him feel a little more even-footed.

“Yes,” Cas mutters, and then they’re off.

Since the driver seems to be in no hurry to turn the music back on — and honestly, neither is Dean — he decides to try and make conversation. It was surprisingly fun, chatting with Cas back at the diner, although he’s pretty sure he rambled about Sammy way too much — whatever Cas wants from him, it’s definitely not a rundown of his baby brother’s various achievements — and he wouldn’t mind a little more of that on the way home.

“So, you’ve got a sister? Is it just you two, or . . .?” Dean asks, genuinely curious, though he should probably ask about Cas’s family to be polite, either way.

Cas hesitates.

“Ah — no. My family is actually quite large. I have three sisters, and four brothers.”

Dean stares at him, stunned.

“What — seriously? That’s — eight kids, right? Was that planned or—" Dean cuts himself off, realizing the rest of that sentence might be a little insulting to Cas’s parents.

But Cas just gives a throaty chuckle.

“My parents are very religious.”

“So — so they wanted a lot of kids, or they didn’t believe in birth control?” he asks, unable to restrain himself and Cas glances over briefly, amused, before returning his gaze to the road.

“A little of column A, a little of column B.”

“Jeez.” Dean processes that for a moment, before another thought hits him. “So — how do they feel about the whole . . .” he waves a hand at Cas. It’s still hard to say shit like that, but fortunately, Cas knows what he means.

The smile this time is a little bitter.

“Gay liaisons?

Dean wrinkles his nose.

“Sounds gross when you put it that way.”

“What, you don’t like thinking about gay liaisons?”

“Not when you call them gay liaisons,” Dean snarks back, and Cas is laughing again, which makes Dean weirdly happy; he didn’t like the way Cas looked when Dean asked about his parents’ views on that.

“Fair enough. They don’t like them.” He shrugs. “They’re good people — they’d never beat me, or even send me to those weird camps, but — they do try and limit my independence to, uh, act on my urges.”

Dean frowns. Cas is so — so _much._ The idea of people trying to contain him in any way is both a surprise and a shame.

Cas hums suddenly, before Dean has a chance to respond.

“Does that mean you like to think about them if I _don’t_ call them gay liaisons?”

Dean blushes for the four-hundred-and-seventieth time that evening, but his sympathy has made him daring — or reckless, maybe — and he finds himself blurting out:

“Actually, I’m bi.”

The car swerves, and Cas clumsily rights the vehicle’s trajectory before casting Dean a shocked look.

“Oh,” he says, eyes wide.

“I, um. I — I’ve known that for a while. It’s — Charlie helped me figure it out, actually. I mean, not like — in a weird way, just. Because she’s — yeah. I didn’t know, before, that that was a thing, but, I’m — I definitely am,” he finishes awkwardly, cursing his honesty. Because really, Cas is a complete unknown, and while Dean can’t really picture him gossiping, Dean’s imagination means fuck-all in reality, and he just handed Cas the most damning blackmail there exists.

“I see.” Cas clears his throat. “Me, too. That is, I am also bi.”

Despite his low-key panic, Dean smirks at that.

“Yeah,” he retorts dryly. “I know. In fact, I’m pretty sure _everyone_ knows. You don’t exactly keep it a secret.”

“Perhaps. But I wasn’t sure if you were paying attention.”

Dean sighs inwardly. Dean couldn’t _not_ pay attention to Castiel Novak even if he wanted to; he’s tried.

Wonders never cease, because again, he shocks himself with his response.

“Yeah, well. Maybe a little.”

He thinks he sees Cas smile in his peripheral, though he’s too chicken to actually look.

“Good,” Cas says, and something warm and fluttery alights in Dean’s stomach — just one more thing he saves to worry about later.

They make it to Dean’s house a couple minutes later, and Dean’s not sure what protocol is for when a guy you barely know drives you home after hanging out. It occurs to him that that sounds kinda like a first date, but that isn’t what this is, and Dean neither wants or expects Cas to walk him to the door and go in for a kiss.

(A least, he _mostly_ doesn’t want that. Even if some small part of him does, he’s pretty sure he’d reflexively duck if Cas tried.)

“Well, here we are,” he says lamely, cursing himself immediately after, because if anything ever sounded like an obvious attempt to stall, that was it.

“Indeed. Should I walk you to—" Cas starts with a grin, and Dean hastily cuts him off.

“Nope, I’m good,” he says, wrestling the door open. He’s just about to throw himself out when Cas reaches for his arm.

“Dean,” he says, and after a beat, Dean turns, a little afraid of where this is going. Cas wouldn’t, right? He could not possibly, in any universe, have an iota of interest in lame Dean Winchester, handmaiden of the nerds, ergo, he couldn’t possibly be about to make a move.

“Yeah, Cas?” Cas’s name hits a high note, but Cas holds his gaze steadily, unfazed.

“I meant what I said; I think you’re likely to, um, _bloom,_ at any time now. But even if you didn’t — that would be fine.”

Dean stares back, uncomprehending, and Cas takes a breath.

“I mean that — you’re fine as you are. You could stay that way, and not be found lacking. At least not by anyone who mattered. Just so you know.”

Dean swallows, speechless and unsure how to take that. He knows how he _wants_ to take it. He wants to smother the angry little piece of himself that thinks Cas is a dirty liar, that even if Dean did miraculously develop a jaw you could cut yourself on and a tall, strapping physique, he’d still be 'found lacking' by anyone who bothered to evaluate him. He wants to take Cas for his word, to believe him, to believe that this total badass he’s grudgingly admired from afar actually believes his own words, too, is seeking Dean out and eating burgers with him because of it.

He can’t, quite, but he finds that he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless, and he nods at Cas, hoping his face conveys that, even if he can’t find words to do it.

“Yeah. Thanks. ‘Night, man,” he says softly.

And then he shuts the door and scurries back into his house, heart beating just a little bit too fast.


	2. Part I: there's a light and it pulls me in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: none that I can think of, please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> Note: Dean is glad to hear Cas isn’t a vegetarian, but that is not meant to be any kind of general commentary on vegetarianism.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoy! ♡

> _Oh, I know, that boy's gonna rip me up_
> 
> _'Cause he ain't that nice, he won't do right_
> 
> _He'll leave a nasty cut . . ._
> 
> _\- Paper Love, Allie X_

“So, Castiel,” Bela asks Sunday afternoon. “Have you made me proud?”

“Or did Winchester tell you to fuck off and die?” Crowley follows eagerly.

Cas just rolls his eyes.

“I don’t think Dean would tell anyone to fuck off and die unless they gave him adequate provocation, which I, not being an idiot, did not do.”

Crowley shrugs.

“I don’t know, given your reputation—"

“Dean isn’t the type to judge someone based on their reputation,” Cas counters. “At least, not to any extreme.”

Crowley lifts a brow.

“’Dean isn’t the type,’” he muses. “Interesting.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. You must have made a lot of progress, indeed, if you think you can say that.”

“Well, I have.” Cas leans back on Bela’s bed, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “I spoke to Dean a couple of times, and on Friday, we went out on a d—an outing.”

“An outing? What does that mean?” Bela demands. “You held hands and skipped through a field of wildflowers, or you felt him up at the local theater?”

“Neither. We just went to Missouri’s. Dean’s . . .” He tries to think of how to say it. “Suspicious, by nature. And he isn’t wrong; it’s very odd of me to suddenly be interested in him.”

“So you’re making friends first,” Crowley concludes. “A wise strategy. I expected you to put the moves on him and get dressed down in front of everyone — and not in the fun way.”

“I’m not stupid, Crowley. Or impatient.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I think you’re very impatient.” He smirks. “And less clever than you might think.”

“Whatever.”

“Alright. So — you had dinner. How did that go?” Bela prompts, fed up, as per usual, with the antagonistic back and forth.

“It went well, I think. We flirted — or I flirted,” Castiel amends, although he’s thinking of the drive home, of Dean’s confession, of his cheeky confirmation that he pays attention to Cas. “And he let me pay for his meal and drive him home.”

“Did he let you kiss him at the door, though?” Gabe teases, looking up from his Gameboy, and Cas sighs.

“No, nor did I try. I told you. Whatever I’m selling, Dean’s not buying it yet. Unfortunately for you, it’ll be a while before I get any love confessions out of him.”

“If you do,” Crowley reminds him.

“If I do.” And after spending time with Dean, Cas thinks he really could; not so much because he, himself, is irresistible or anything, but because in spite of Dean’s fierce, prickly demeanor, Cas can tell he’s a warm person — perhaps even the kind that gets attached to people whether he wants to or not, as long as those people can show him something of merit.

Cas believes if he can be a good friend to Dean, Dean won’t be able to stop himself from caring. And unless Cas is reading things wrong, Dean is already attracted to him; last night, he admitted to being aware of his sexuality, so it stands to reason he would be open to that potential, once he _did_ care.

It’ll just take time.

“Hm.” Bela looks at Crowley. “I think that’s adequate, don’t you?”

“Unfortunately,” Crowley agrees with a sigh, and starts reaching for his wallet.

“Nice to know my opinion actually matters,” Gabe mutters. Crowley just ignores him, eyeing Cas with distaste.

“What was it, again? A hundred?”

Cas confirms this, takes the money, and they wander down the hall to the theater room for a movie, but for some reason, there’s a sour feeling in his stomach that hadn’t been there when he’d dropped Dean off at home on Friday.

Still, he does his best to shake it off and enjoy the show, thinking of his next move.

Dean’s not sure what to expect from school on Monday, if his weird thing with Cas will turn out to be some kind of strange fever dream (he doubts it. He’s dreamed about Cas a few times in the last week, and he can tell the difference), or if Cas will have found a new random hobby and never speak to Dean again.

In the end, he’s waiting by Dean’s locker, clutching a travel mug and looking tired.

“Morning,” he says shortly, closing his eyes as he sips from the mug. When he opens them again, he holds it out to Dean. “Coffee?”

Dean stares at it like it’s a live snake.

“Uh. No. Can’t. Might affect my growth,” he manages.

“Suit yourself.” Cas takes another swig and grumbles. “Mondays. What’s your first class?”

“Um.” Dean’s still tripping over the fact that Cas was _waiting by his locker_. “Why are you here so early?”

“An affair with Ms. McLeod,” he deadpans, and Dean’s jaw drops.

“Are you _serio—"_

“Hardly. You would never find my body if I tried, I suspect. No, I heard _you_ would be here, and between bothering you and dealing with the insane morning bustle at the Novak household, I chose you.”

“Who told you I would be here?”

“Charlie.”

“Oh. You — you talked to Charlie?”

“You told me to,” he says, eyes bright with humor. “D&D, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just — I thought —" _I thought that was just your excuse to talk to me._

God, Dean’s an idiot.

Cas doesn’t call him on it, though that gaze turns knowing.

“Anyway. She told me to ask you.” He shakes his head. “Which I did, except you sent me away. Are you _sure_ you’re not trying to get rid of me?”

“What? No,” he protests, although he’s still not sure why he’s not trying to get rid of Cas. (Except he is; Dean likes the attention, specifically because it’s coming from Cas.) “I just — usually Charlie decides things like that.”

“I see. Well, she told me _you_ would this time, and that morning practice often concludes well before the first bell.”

“Why didn’t you ask me at dinner?” Dean counters suspiciously.

A slow, lazy smile develops at the lip of the travel mug.

“I forgot. There were more interesting things happening.”

_Damn it._

“Okay. Well, then — if you’re sure you want to sit around the table playing pretend with us, then go for it. We meet every other Saturday night.”

Cas beams at him.

“Great. I look forward to it. Is there something I should know?”

“Uh. You can do some research, if you want, but it’s easiest to learn by playing. You can just watch the first time,” he offers, then immediately kicks himself, because _awkward,_ but Cas lights up.

“Yes, that sounds best.”

Dean sighs.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll write down the details for you.”

Cas nods, sipping at his mug again, and Dean makes a face.

“Why are you so tired, anyway? I see you out running way earlier than this.”

“Not on Mondays you don’t.”

“What, do you spend Sunday night drinking or something?” Dean jokes, but Cas tilts his head, staring back evenly. “Oh. Well, okay. Cool.”

He’s not sure what else to say, and after a minute, Cas smiles.

“No, I don’t. But Sundays are special in my household.” He sighs. “A special hell, as it happens.”

“Oh. Sorry,” he offers lamely, and Cas shrugs.

“It is what it is.” He glances up at the wall clock. “We have about fifteen minutes before first bell. Want to go sit in the cafeteria and watch the sun finish coming up?”

Dean stares.

Cas is asking him to watch a sunrise. Through the cafeteria windows, to be fair — not that Dean’s in a hurry to go back outside — but, still. A sunrise.

Dean can’t help himself. It sounds nice.

“Sure.”

And then he follows Cas down the hall, past the clusters of students that have sprung up in the last five minutes, and to the empty cafeteria, where Cas settles right on top of a table by the window, patting the space beside him. Wordlessly, Dean scrambles up to take it, and they watch in silence while Cas finishes his coffee. It’s one of those nice, bright pink and gold sunrises, and somehow, Dean finds himself relaxing into the moment after only a few minutes.

He’s a little disappointed when the warning bell rings, and Cas nudges him.

“Come on. Where are you headed?”

“Uh, Trig.”

“Cool. I’ll walk with you.”

Because apparently, things weren’t surreal enough already, Cas walks Dean all the way to his Trig class, throwing him one last grin at the door before sauntering away to his own.

Dean, ultimately, has no idea what happens in Trig.

“I heard you had a morning coffee date with Winchester this morning,” Bela teases at lunch, brows raised. “Moving fast, aren’t you?”

“It was your idea.”

“And what a brilliant idea it was. I am _so_ looking forward to it paying off,” she adds, giving a rapturous sigh. Crowley snorts next to her.

“It won’t. The boy could have a boner the size of the Chrysler building for you, but when it comes right down to it — pardon my language — he won’t bite. Trust me. I’ve seen this plenty of times before.”

Cas frowns.

“That’s physically impossible.”

“You’ve never seen me after a girls volleyball ga-ow!” Gabriel winces, and Bela resumes opening her styrofoam takeout container like she didn’t just hurl her entire bag of books at him.

“So, tell me more about this delightful little date of yours on Friday,” she prompts him.

Cas shifts uneasily, toying with the _Snickers_ Gabriel brought for him.

“What’s there to tell?”

“Don’t be that way. The whole point of this is for our entertainment.”

“I thought winning was the point.”

“It’s the cherry on top. Meanwhile, we both get to watch beacon-of-masculinity John Winchester’s eldest son turn into a Disney princess over you.”

“I don’t think he’s the Disney princess type.”

“Oh, but I think he is. Have you seen those lashes? Wasted on a man.”

Cas sighs. Some things in life are predictable.

“Lashes are not an indicator of romantic proclivities, Bela.”

She narrows her eyes.

“What, don’t want to kiss and tell?”

“There’s been no kissing, and—" he stops, realizing he was about to say he didn’t _want_ to tell. But he knew, when he agreed, that he’d be delivering progress reports and ultimately, proof of a love confession. And there was no denying that the point of it was for Cas’s friends to laugh over it.

_Dean_ didn’t have to know about it, of course, which is the only reason it was kind of okay.

“And what?”

“There’s not a lot to tell,” he finishes noncommittally. “He’s very cautious. Sometimes he looks at me like I’m about to attack him.”

“In the sexy way?” Crowley asks.

“In the murdery way.”

“Huh. That doesn’t bode well for you, Cassie — not unless Deano’s one kinky bastard,” Gabe interjects, and Cas scoffs.

“Isn’t it better if it’s a challenge?” he points out, and Bela grins.

“Always, Castiel. Always. What else happened?”

“Well. Our waitress was a friend of his. I think she thought it was a date.”

“Did Dean think it was?”

“No, but he could tell she did, and he was very uncomfortable. Of course, that may have also been because I insisted on sharing that side of the booth with him.”

“Oh, God, did you really?” She looks at him, delighted. “I’m surprised he didn’t shove you back out!”

“I think he may have wanted to, but he was very well-behaved.”

“Well, keep trying, Cassie. Whether you get him to throw himself at you or just throw a punch, I win either way,” Gabe teases, and Bela waves her hand at him to shut up.

“And when you dropped him off? Did he say anything?”

Cas thinks for a moment. The drive home was — nice, to be honest. Much better than the drive there, aside from Dean’s discovery of his appreciation for ABBA (he doesn’t kid himself that Dean believed his I’m-holding-it-for-a-friend equivalent), but Cas doesn’t trust any of his friends not to repeat the secret of Dean’s sexuality. Even if he did, Cas felt it was clear that Dean meant to tell him, and him alone.

As for when they reached Dean’s house — well, Dean didn’t say anything as much as Cas did, and Cas is decidedly against repeating that part of the conversation. He wasn’t sure what prompted him to say it, even, but once it popped into his head, he hadn’t liked the idea of letting Dean go back inside thinking everything rode on what he may or may not become.

“I did offer to walk him to the door.”

“Did he accept?”

“No, he launched himself out of the car and ran,” Cas lies, and his friends dissolve into laughter.

Bela’s shaking out the last of her mirth when something catches her eye.

“Ah, there’s your little boyfriend now. Aren’t you going to sit together?”

“Why would I? I wasn’t invited. And I’m sitting with you all.”

“But what if _we all_ want to see you in action?”

Cas hesitated. He’d frankly rather them _not_ see him in action.

“What if he notices you all staring?”

“There’s nothing weird about your friends staring at you. It’s high school, Cas.”

Crowley narrows his eyes.

“You’re not hiding anything, are you, Cas? Such as, perhaps, that he already rejected you?”

That, at least, Cas can honestly deny.

“He didn’t. I gave him nothing to reject.”

“Then go sit with him and his cute little friends.”

“Fine.”

Cas stands, and is startled to find himself growing a little apprehensive as he approaches the table. His usual confidence somehow fades when faced with the prospect of uncertain welcome by Dean and his many friends — at least half-a-dozen sophomores are clustered around the table — and while Cas is much bigger than most of them and, he maintains, doesn’t give a fuck, it’s still . . . unsettling.

Especially given how they catch sight of him and lurch into a flurry of whispers, then abruptly fall silent once he’s close enough that he might have heard.

Not a single person at the table is looking at him, but he feels the uncanny sensation of being watched.

“Hello, Dean,” he greets nonchalantly, and Dean’s head jerks up. Around him, the group very casually picks at their lunches,

“Oh, uh, hi Cas, didn’t see you there.”

_Right._

A little of the confidence seeps back in, spurred by amusement.

“I’m rather quiet. As you’ve observed,” he adds, dry, and Dean gives a weak chuckle.

“Yeah, that’s — you’re right about that. So, um, did you need something?”

“I thought I’d join you for lunch.”

All the heads turn toward him now, and Charlie pipes up without giving Dean a chance.

“Sure! Everybody scoot,” she commands, and like a well-oiled machine, the line on Dean’s side shifts away from him in what looks like a single movement.

Dean stares balefully at the space beside him, and Charlie beams up at Cas.

“Have a seat!”

He pauses, surveying the space between Dean and a blonde he recognizes as Mr. Singer’s step-daughter, though he can’t recall her name, and tries to decide how best to squirm into it.

“Dean,” Jo hisses through her teeth, smile blinding. “Move.”

Wordlessly, Dean slides over, leaving the space at the end for Cas to get into.

“Thank you, Dean,” he says warmly, torn between pity and perverse pleasure at Dean’s discomfort, and neatly takes the spot, pressing right up against Dean and leaving a good four inches on the end of the bench.

It’s a blatant violation of Bro Code, and Dean shoots him an alarmed glance, which Cas pretends not to see.

“So, Cas, Dean here tells us you’ll be joining our D&D party,” Charlie says, eyes flicking between them.

“I would like to, yes.”

“How do you feel about regular LARPing?”

“What?”

“Live-action roleplay.”

“Oh. Uh, I’m not sure I know you all well enough to be comfortable . . .” He trails off, both disturbed by and admiring of Charlie’s gumption. Beside him, Dean curls in on himself, shoulders shaking.

Charlie looks confused for a moment, then goes pink.

“Oh! Oh, no, that’s not — see, what we do, it’s like a game, uh, but not a sexy one, and we dress up and pretend to be characters. Like, I’m the queen of Moondor, which is one of the kingdoms we made up, and we trade and fight with the other kingdoms, and Benny and Jo are my knights — oh, and Dean is my ha- _eep!”_ Charlie yelps, wincing as she throws Dean a dirty look.

He picks at the table, pretending not to notice.

Cas really, really wants to know what Dean is and why he most likely kicked Charlie under the table, but he also wants to be invited back.

And, he decides, it will be much more entertaining if Dean tells him himself.

“It sounds . . . fun?”

“It’s _so_ fun. Actually, you’d make a great wizard, and Garth just changed over to being a healer because he didn’t like the battles, so I’m in the market for a new one.”

He’s not sure why he’d make a great wizard, or what that would entail, but he shrugs.

“Perhaps I could try that. But I’d like to start with the game.”

“Oh, of course,” Charlie agrees, grinning brightly at him. “But I’m sure you’ll _love_ it.”

“I’m sure I will.” He yawns, a relatively small movement, but decides to take the opportunity to perform an exaggerated stretch, raising his arms above his head and letting his side slide up along Dean’s as he tilts to the right.

Dean freezes, and once Cas’s arms are back down, he leans close to Dean’s ear.

“Sorry. Still tired.”

“S’fine,” Dean mumbles, and it’s all Cas can do not to grin.

When he looks up again, the table is staring (with the exception of a gangly, friendly-looking boy, who continues to attack his sandwich with gusto). Charlie looks mischievously pleased, and the brunette sitting next to her is raising her brows.

Dean coughs.

“A-anyway. So, um, Jo, what did Ellen say about using the bar for Eileen’s birthday that morning?” he stammers out, and Cas couldn’t be more delighted. There is a possibility, of course, that his presence during this event’s mention will ultimately be a meaningless coincidence, but there are much greater odds that he’s just been handed another opportunity to spend time with Dean, wearing down his defenses.

“She says it’s fine, but she’ll be locking up the booze and if she catches anybody drinking, she’ll call Jody.”

“That’s cool, we weren’t planning on it, anyway. Can Benny and I use the kitchen?”

“So long as you clean it.”

Dean grins, crooked and bright and oddly becoming.

“Sweet.”

Regrettably, Cas is forced to ruin it.

“Oh? Whose birthday is it?”

Charlie bounces a little in her seat, throwing an arm around the brunette next to her.

“Eileen! Sweet sixteen. Oh, nice, that rhymes!”

Eileen raises a brow at her, watching her mouth, then huffs a laugh, shooting Cas an exasperated look.

Cas smiles.

“Happy birthday, Eileen.”

“Thank you,” she says, and he surmises, from the accompanying gesture at her lips, that she isn’t fully hearing. He wishes he knew any sign language at all, but settles for a friendly nod.

Charlie looks thoughtful.

“ _Actually_ ,” she starts, and next to him, Dean bristles. “Here’s a, uh, crazy thought. Why don’t you join us? If it’s okay with Eileen, I mean.”

Eileen is giving her a curious look, but shrugs.

“I don’t mind.”

“Great! It’s the 27th, can you make it?”

Cas pretends to think about it. His parents won’t like that it’s taking place in a bar, even if it is in the morning, but then, they don’t have to know. With any luck, they’ll just be glad he’s making other friends. As much as they’re a little in awe of the Talbots’ and Crowleys’ wealth, they can’t bring themselves to entirely approve of how much time Cas spends with them going out in the evenings.

“Yes, I believe so,” he finally says, pleased. “If you’re sure, that is. Please don’t feel obligated.”

“Oh, no. The more the merrier, as they say. Right, everyone?” she chirps. Down the line, the blonde snorts, shaking her head.

“Whatever you say, Charlie.”

The brawny kid in the cap has been smirking, mostly in the eyes, this entire time, and murmurs his agreement, while the gangly one tears himself away from his sandwich and bobs his head enthusiastically.

“Any friend of Dean’s is a friend of mine!”

There’s a wheezing noise next to Cas, and Charlie looks to Dean, smile firm.

“Right, Dean?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure, Charlie. Sure”

Cas doesn’t even need to look to know that he’s glaring, so he politely fiddles with his _Snickers_ instead, inwardly delighted.

“See? So you better be there, Castiel!”

“Cas,” he corrects her, smiling. “And I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“Charlie, you freakin’ _monster._ ”

“Oh, please, like your knickers aren’t aquiver with anticipation. I’m not an idiot, Dean, I can tell you wanna hit that.”

“I don’t — I’m not — and wait, _what?_ What does that even mean?”

“Uh, that you wanna hit that? Did you not sleep last night or something?”

“Charlie!” he snaps. “Seriously.”

“ _Dean,_ ” she imitates. “Seriously. What’s the big deal?”

“It’s not a — a big _deal,_ it’s just — it’s gonna be awkward, don’t you think? We don’t even know him!”

“Well, if he keeps stalking you, you’ll know him well enough by then,” she counters, smirking.

“He’s not — I don’t think—"

“Oh, don’t even. What else do you call that? And sitting right in your personal bubble like that? And he stares at you! And — for the love of Hermione, Dean, he took you to dinner! And _paid for it._ He clearly wants to date you!”

“No, he doesn’t!” Dean insists, because how is nobody else asking the obvious question?

“Why not?”

“Why _would_ he?” he hisses back, and Charlie looks startled.

Someone clears their throat.

“Excuse me.”

They both turn at that, and the librarian gives them a gentle, but firm smile.

“Please remember this is a library. I’m sure your conversation’s very important, but you need to either select some books or go sit down, okay?”

They apologize hastily, huddling by the shelves in silence until she wanders away.

“What do you mean?” Charlie whispers, once the coast is clear.

“I mean — yes, it’s weird that he’s suddenly — perching on my shoulder, or whatever, but — that doesn’t mean he wants to date me. Pretty much any other reason you can think of is more likely.”

Charlie pouts.

“I disagree. I think you’re great, lots of people probably want to date you.”

Dean outright laughs at that.

“Good one, Charlie. _No one_ wants to date me. Last week a four-year-old told me I looked like her Polly Pocket.

“Polly Pockets are cute,” Charlie protests, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Only creepy perverts wanna feel ‘em up, though.”

“Okay, well, then the four-year-old was wrong! You’re nice-looking, for a boy-person. I’m sure Cas would love to feel you up.”

Dean desperately resists the mental picture that almost provokes.

“And _I’m_ sure he wouldn’t. We never even spoke before last week! Guys like that don’t just randomly decide they want to date scrawny sophomores they don’t even know. Especially _dude_ scrawny sophomores. Anybody who didn’t know better would assume I was straight.”

Charlie opens her mouth.

“I said anybody who didn’t know better, okay?”

She sighs.

“I still think he likes you,” she mumbles. “He looks at you like he likes you. Believe me, Dean. I’m a girl, so I supposedly know these things.”

Dean’s not sure what to say to that. If this were a perfect fantasy land, he’d take Charlie’s word for it, tentatively look forward to Cas being there for the D&D meet and Eileen’s party, and then maybe daydream a little about him making a move (Dean certainly would never).

But it’s not a perfect fantasy land, and even if Charlie’s being deliberately obtuse, _Dean_ knows better. He knows shit like this doesn’t just happen, and that there’s no way Cas Novak likes him. Cas Novak probably wouldn’t even use Dean for an easy hookup if Dean literally stripped off all his clothes and cried, “Take me now.”

Nope, it’s just not happening. Never would, never _could._

Something else is going on here, and even if his best friend won’t be helping him — Dean’s gonna figure out _what._

Cas is pretty sure Dean’s starting to warm up to him.

Sure, he seemed a little skittish again at lunchtime, but Cas is fairly certain that was just because his friends were there. Besides, he was fine when they watched the sunrise this morning. Cas doesn’t usually do things like that, though he often enjoys the view while running, and he was surprised by how pleasant it was.

Dean’s whole face seemed to glow as the sun brightened, coming through the windows of the still-dark cafeteria. Cas sits quietly with his friends a lot, but perching on the lunch table, sipping his coffee and stealing glances at Dean was different. A little better, if he was being honest, though he couldn't really say why.

Of course, while Cas _thinks_ Dean’s starting to warm up to him, Cas should _probably_ get him alone again, just to make sure.

It is with this purpose in mind that Cas neatly avoids his friends and stakes out a spot on the bleachers once the final bell has rung. Watching a bunch of fools run around on the field for two hours is a tedious task, but Cas has a book and if he doesn’t catch Dean after practice, he’ll have to wait until tomorrow; given that there are precious few opportunities at school, and Cas is hoping for a larger chunk of one-on-one time, he’s going to have to just deal with it if he wants the chance.

Watching football practice, as it turns out, is not actually an option.

Dean literally trips, taking down a second-string teammate when he spots Cas in the stands. Cas gives a friendly wave in return, warmly satisfied by his ability to affect Dean (although putting a sophomore to blush is not exactly a feat to write home about), and is puzzled when Dean scrambles to his feet, wildly shaking his head.

He’s baffled by the communication for all of thirty seconds, watching Dean’s large teammate (he thinks he recognizes him as the guy with the cap) say something that makes him turn red, until suddenly both kids straighten and John Winchester takes the field.

_Ah_ _,_ Cas thinks. That is definitely the man who yelled at him last year. Based on everyone’s reaction — falling quiet as they snap to attention — he hazards a guess that the yelling is probably a character trait.

He also realizes that he’s made a grievous error, having forgotten that Dean’s father coached football and would, thus, be present for practice.

He’s hastily shoving his book back in his bag when John catches sight of him and stalks over.

“You!” he barks. “What are you doing here?”

Cas hoists the bag over his shoulder, painfully aware of the curious looks Dean’s teammates are throwing them. Hopefully, no one noticed him wave at Dean.

“I was hoping for some fresh air while I read. Sir,” he adds cheekily, unable to resist. John narrows his eyes.

“It’s forty degrees out, son.”

_Not your son, thank God._

“I was just noticing that, actually. I’ll be on my way.”

“I think that’d be best for you,” John says, and Cas knows he’s not talking about his health. He can tell by the look in John’s eye that he remembers Cas, too.

Cas doesn’t bother saying goodbye before he hops down the bleachers and wanders away.

Once out of sight of the field, he makes a beeline for the bench Dean was hiding behind last Friday, hoping he’s guessed right and that’s where Dean will meet Sam after practice. He sits for about five minutes before he gets cold and remembers that he can just wait inside until practice ends.

He sets his watch and reads, though it’s hard to focus. He ends up frowning down at the words, thinking of Dean’s frantic head-shaking; it’s not a surprise, so much as it’s a . . . _concern_ , and he hopes he hasn’t set himself back by showing up there. John can’t possibly know he was there for _Dean_ , but Dean still might have gotten spooked, might have decided that whatever cheap thrills were to be found in entertaining Cas’s advances weren’t worth the potential for trouble.

Cas tries not to feel disappointed at the thought.

Eventually, he manages to get into his book, and time passes quickly enough before the after-school buses pull up to the curb; not long after that, clubs begin to let out, a dim clamor of lockers and voices echoing through the hall as those students prepare to leave. Figuring that’s his cue, Cas packs up his book and steps out into the cold, heading for the bench and plunking down to wait.

His languid sprawl quickly turns to huddling on the bench, thin black hoodie weak protection against the chill. John wasn’t wrong; it’s fucking freezing out, but the only coat Cas owns is a bulky, ill-fitting mustard ski jacket with bright orange accents and the church logo dab-smack across the back, and no one would ever take him seriously again if he wore it to school.

He almost wishes he had it now, though, pressing his cheek to his knees in an effort to warm them. It puts his head at a strange angle, one which allows him to watch the comings and goings from the school, and he recognizes Sam Winchester and his friend Jess as they pause just outside the door to say their goodbyes. Then Jess leaves, heading toward a minivan in the parking lot, and Sam sticks his hands in his pockets and watches her go.

Cas smiles.

“Hello, Sam,” he calls, and Sam’s head jerks up. The boy peers around, startled, before his gaze settles on Cas. He ambles over, eyes bright with curiosity.

“Hi. Do I know you?”

“I’m a friend of Dean’s,” Cas explains, and Sam nods, curiosity turning to worry.

“Are you on the team? Did something happen at practice?”

“What? Oh. No, no. I’m not a, uh, sports person. To the best of my knowledge, he’s fine. I’m just waiting for him.”

“Oh. Cool." Sam takes the seat next to Cas. “What’s your name?”

“Cas,” Cas says, reluctantly sticking a hand out. Sam shakes it, grip unexpectedly firm.

“Nice to meet you, Cas. I’m Sam. But, um, I guess you knew that.” He tilts his head. “Dean didn’t mention you.”

“Oh.” That’s a shame. Of course, maybe he didn’t want Sam to let slip anything untoward in front of their father. “Well, I’m a new friend, actually.”

At that, Sam grins.

“Awesome. Dean has a lot of friends, but he deserves more. He’s great, isn’t he?”

Cas grins back, utterly charmed. He doubts a single one of his siblings would describe him thus, but Sam speaks as if it is gospel.

“He really is.”

They chat about classes, and books, and when Sam hears Cas reads Harry Potter, demands to know what he thought of the Half-Blood Prince. Cas asks if he’s allowed to say the last two were kind of bad. Sam says no. Cas then compromises by saying how much he’s looking forward to the seventh one and, Sam appeased, the conversation proceeds smoothly.

Dean is visibly shocked to find him there.

“Hey Sammy,” he says distractedly, nudging Sam’s knee with his leg. “Cas. What’re you doing here?”

Cas studies him very carefully, searching for any sign of anger, but mostly he sees the usual guarded curiosity.

He relaxes.

“Waiting for you. Your dad chased me off the field.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry, for being there. I had forgotten . . .”

Dean shrugs.

“It’s cool. Just, you know. My dad can be a loose screw, so maybe don’t stalk me to practice next time.”

Cas almost objects, but decides that’s not an inaccurate description of his behavior, and holds his tongue.

“It’s just as well. I had the pleasure of meeting your brother.”

Dean narrows his eyes at that, tensing a little.

Interesting.

“Yeah? How was that?” His tone is casual, but he makes eye contact with Sam, and Cas immediately understands. Dean will put up with his strange behavior if it’s just him — but if he finds out Cas has been bothering Sam . . .

“Awesome!” Sam chirps. “Your friend’s really cool, Dean.”

Dean blanches.

“He’s not my friend,” he says quickly, and Cas—

Cas blinks, startled. He’s — he feels kind of — _hurt._

“I’m not?” he demands, unthinking, just as Sam does the same, though Sam seems to be more confused than indignant. Dean looks startled, but he shouldn’t be. Perhaps they don’t know each other _that_ well, but now that Cas thinks of it, they had dinner and Dean came out to him and Cas is even invited to Eileen’s birthday, so _yes,_ they’re friends, damn it.

“Uhhh . . .” Dean swallows. “I — I guess — are you?”

Cas lifts his chin.

“Yes.” He’s ready to list the reasons why, but Dean just turns red and nods.

“Oh. Okay. Cool.”

Sam looks between them curiously.

“You didn’t know you were friends?”

His older brother coughs.

“Uh, well, Cas is a, uh, new friend.”

“Yeah, he said. But _he_ knew.” Sam shakes his head, turning to Cas with sad eyes. “Dean’s always like this, he doesn’t think people like him even though they—"

One of Dean’s hands clumsily finds its way over Sam’s mouth.

“O- _kay,_ we’re good here, Sammy. Actually, we should probably go,” he mutters, then glances at Cas. “Was there a reason you were waiting, or just bein’—" he cuts off, looking away guiltily, and Cas can guess what adjective was about to follow.

“Actually, I was hoping we could hang out.”

Dean rubs the back of his neck.

“Uh, I really can’t. Sam and I gotta get home and have dinner.”

Sam suddenly narrows his eyes, looking thoughtful.

“Why don’t you invite Cas over?”

“What? No! I mean, I’m sure Cas doesn’t wanna—"

“I’d love to,” Cas agrees sunnily, again forgetting about John Winchester and his yell-y tendencies, and Sam beams.

“Sweet! Dean’s making spaghetti, you’re gonna _love_ it.” He stops. “Oh, you’re not, like, a vegetarian, right?”

“Not at all.”

“Thank God,” Dean mutters. Sam ignores him.

“Then yeah, you’ll love it. Dean’s an awesome cook, he makes me dinner every night.”

“Sam,” Dean says tiredly.

“And,” Sam continues, a sly look crossing his face. “Dad’s not gonna be home until late. So you know.”

Oh. Well. That solves that issue, although Cas is vaguely uncomfortable with the meaningful tone Sam uses for the last bit.

Dean appears to be speechless.

“Well,” Cas starts, getting to his feet. “In that case, would you like me to drive you?”

Sam lights up.

“You have a car?”

“Yes.” Cas starts walking, gesturing to his gold Lincoln as he moves. Dean and Sam trail after him.

“And you’re allowed to drive it?”

“I should hope so.”

“Cool! Dean’s gonna be sixteen in January—" Sam cuts off abruptly, a grin flashing across his face, there and gone “— that’s the 24th, so you know — and Dad’s gonna let him use the _Impala._ ” He emphasizes the last word, like it’s supposed to mean something to Cas, and Cas wracks his brain for an answer.

He has nothing.

“What is the . . . Impala?”

This time, Dean lights up.

“Oh, _man_. Only the most perfect car ever made. You’re gonna lose your shit when you see her, Cas — she’s parked in the garage, I’ll show you when we get there. But you don’t even know, Baby —"

“That’s the Impala,” Sam interjects.

“—is a freakin’ work of art,” Dean continues, and keeps talking, all the way to the car, and all the way to the house after that. Cas finds he doesn’t mind listening — this is the most friendly and least defensive he’s seen Dean yet — and is amused to find that it takes great effort to get Dean to pause long enough to give him directions.

In the back seat, Sam looks on, mysteriously pleased with the whole thing.

Cas decides not to worry about it.

Dean spends a good twenty minutes showing Cas the Impala — it is, admittedly, a very fine vehicle, although Cas isn’t sure the detailed lecture on the seat leather or the defensive speech against cupholders are necessary — before Sam starts getting huffy and finally insists Dean go make dinner.

Cas half-expects him to use the words ‘my turn,’ but he doesn’t really mind. Sam’s entertaining, and it’s a novel experience, in general — not to mentions he defies Gabe to say it isn’t progress.

Upon finding out Cas has not actually seen any of the Harry Potter movies — none of his friends are that into the series, and he had to read the books at the library, lest his parents call a priest — Sam insists on watching the first one with him. Using an impressive amount of force for an eleven-year-old, he plants Cas in the center of the sofa while Dean looks on doubtfully from the kitchen.

“Be gentle with him, Sammy,” he jokes, then winces, as if he regrets his daring.

“ _You_ be gentle with him!” Sam calls back, and flops down next to Cas like his brother isn’t having a heart attack in the kitchen. “Anyway, Cas, what house do you think you’d be in? I’m not sure if I’m a Ravenclaw or a Gryffindor.”

“You’re a Slytherin,” Dean corrects him, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“No, I’m not. And even if I was, not _all_ Slytherins are bad. My friend Ruby is a Slytherin.”

“Your friend Ruby is a little demon, so you’re not helping your point there.”

Sam scowls.

“ _Anyway,_ I asked Cas. Let him talk. Cas?”

“Um. I guess I never thought about it.”

“You’ve never — how can you read the books and not think about it? Ugh. Okay. I don’t think I know you well enough to say. Dean, what house do you think he’d be in?”

They both turn to look at Dean expectantly. Cas is very curious as to the answer; a part of him is expecting Dean to say Slytherin for him, too.

“Uhhhh.” There’s a clank as Dean sets something down. “Gee. I dunno. Maybe a Ravenclaw?”

“ _Really?_ A Ravenclaw? But he’s so . . . cool. I mean, Ravenclaws can be cool, they’re just not usually so . . .”

“Punk?” Cas asks, amused, although he’s surprised by Dean’s answer, too.

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Dean says, and Cas strains to hear him. “He’s too free-spirited to be a Slytherin, but he’s too scary to be a Hufflepuff, but he’s also too mysterious to be a Gryffindor.”

“That doesn’t automatically make him a Ravenclaw.”

“Sure, but — I mean, Cas is really smart, and he’s always reading books when he’s by himself, so. S’good a reason as any.”

Cas stares. Dean clears his throat, as if he can sense it, even as he stirs the noodles in.

“Reading books doesn’t make a person smart, Dean,” Cas counters, unsure why.

“Yeah, but you can tell by talking to you. And I’ve heard the English teachers say how good your essays are.”

Cas is disturbingly flattered that Dean thinks this, a feeling that has nothing to do with his prospective success in the bet.

“Cool! So Cas is a Ravenclaw, like me. Or maybe like me.”

Cas’s brain catches up with him, finally, and he grins.

“Wait a minute. Dean — you watch me read?”

There’s a loud splash. Cas can’t see over Dean’s shoulder, but he’s pretty sure a cooking utensil just ended up in the pot.

“What? No! I don’t _watch_ you read, I’ve just seen you ar—" he cuts off. “Oh, I see. No. Nope. We’re not doin’ this again.”

Cas chuckles quietly, turning back around to find Sam watching with great interest, a little smile on his face.

“Dean likes you a lot,” he says quietly, so his brother won’t hear. Cas arches a brow.

“I thought you said he never mentioned me.”

“No, but that’s not that weird. Dean doesn’t talk about things he has—" Sam airquotes “’feelings’ about. But I can tell.”

“Oh. Well, that’s nice. I like Dean a lot, too,” he says, and it doesn’t feel like a lie.

Sam brightens.

“Yeah? That’s good. Um, can I tell him that?”

Shrugging, Cas picks at a thread in the sofa. This could backfire, but it’s probably fine.

“Sure. I don’t see why not.”

“Cool. I like you, too, Cas,” Sam says, and fiddles around with the remote until he gets the movie to play. He leans back into the sofa, and then mutters, “Although probably not like Dean does.”

If Cas were a different kind of person, he might have blushed.

“Cas likes you a lot.”

Sam barely waits for the front door to shut before he announces this, and Dean throws a panicked look back at it.

“Quiet!” he hisses, holding up a hand. Sam rolls his eyes, but indulgently waits until they hear Cas’s car start. “Okay, what the hell?”

“I said, Cas likes y—"

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Dean would address that later. Or maybe never. He’s not sure if he wants to ask what Sam means or if he doesn’t want to think about today ever again. Being a teenager is very confusing. “I’m talking about _inviting Cas to dinner._ ”

“Oh, come on, Dean, you had fun.”

“You _told_ him I was a _Hufflepuff!_ ” Cas had remembered to ask at dinner, and Sam had blurted it out, like it wasn’t totally freaking embarrassing. And then Cas just nodded slowly, said, “I see that,” and grinned for like, five minutes straight after. _Clearly_ at Dean’s expense!

“Hufflepuffs are great, Dean, I don’t get why you’re so sensitive.”

“I’m sensitive because _why does this shit keep happening to me_?”

“What are you even talking about?” Sam asked, clearly unimpressed, and damn it all, Dean didn’t know how to explain.

“Look — you just — you’ve gotta ask before you randomly invite people over, okay?”

“I did—"

“Not in front of them! I would have looked like a jerk if I said no.”

“Well, why would you say no? He’s your friend. I can tell you like him.”

Sam says it weird, like he _means_ something by that, but he’s eleven and no way in hell is Dean taking this from him.

“Because! I still — listen, he _might_ be my friend. But you gotta understand, Sammy, Cas is kind of a — a _thing,_ at my school.”

“Uh. What’s that mean?”

“Like — all the girls like him, and all the boys are afraid of him. Total badass, okay? He’s friends with Bela Talbot and Fergus Crowley,” Dean adds, lifting his brows meaningfully.

Sam’s eyes go wide.

“Woah.”

“Yeah. Exactly. So — so even though Cas might tell you he’s my friend, and then I have to agree, we never spoke before last week. And it’s really weird that he’s suddenly talkin’ to a dorky sophomore like me. So — so I’m being cautious. I think there’s more going on here.”

“Okay,” Sam says slowly. “But like — what?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Like — what else could be going on? Except that he wants to be your friend?”

“Uh. Well. I don’t know yet. But that can’t be it, you know?”

Sam frowns.

“You’re way cooler than you give yourself credit for, Dean. Maybe he’s tired of his rich, mean friends. You laugh a lot, I bet he thought you looked fun.”

Dean groans, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Okay, clearly, this is beyond you—"

“I’m not a little kid, _Dean—"_

“And we’re done talking about it. Just — he’s not comin’ over again, okay?”

“That’s not fair!” Sam protests. “Cas had fun. Not just with you, he had fun with me. Why shouldn’t he come over?”

Dean hesitates. How to explain to your little brother that your Dad’s a great guy but also kind of a dick and you’re afraid of him?

“Just — Cas has a — a, um, reputation, I guess. Around school. I don’t think Dad’d like him much.”

Understanding dawns.

“Oh. Dad already knows about him?”

“Yeah, Sammy. Everybody knows about Cas.”

Sam looks like he wants to say something, but Dean holds up a hand.

“I’m just sayin’. That’s how it is. You were lucky Dad wasn’t around today, but you can’t talk about Cas. And we definitely can’t have Cas over if Dad’s home.”

Sam lifts his chin, throwing him a shrewd look.

“I know _that_. I’m not stupid.”

And not for the first time, Dean gets that Sam thinks he knows a lot more about this situation than he possibly could.

“Alright. Just — makin’ sure. I don’t want any trouble.”

“No,” Sam agrees, grumbling. “But you have to keep being Cas’s friend at school, okay?”

Dean sighs.

“Okay, Sammy.”

And honestly, between Cas and Charlie, Dean doesn’t think he has a choice. Which is worrying, on its own, but a much bigger concern is the fact that Dean really doesn’t _want_ to.

He’s still sure he’s missing something — that Cas has some kind of agenda here, some ulterior motive for befriending Dean. How could he _not_?

And yet, the more time Dean spends with him, the more he’s desperate to believe he really doesn’t. Dean _wants_ to be friends with Cas. Cas has always grabbed his attention, sure, left him a little awestruck, but the more Dean actually talks to him — the more he gets to see all Cas’s little expressions firsthand, gets to enjoy his particular brand of wit — the more Dean thinks Sam is right.

He _likes_ Cas; not as Castiel Novak, devastating bad boy, but as _Cas,_ Dean’s maybe-friend.

Cas listened to him ramble about Baby for like, an entire half-hour, and looked interested the whole time; and then he entertained Dean’s kid brother while Dean made dinner, and then he got that weirdly cute, startled-bashful look when Dean explained why he could be a Ravenclaw, and _then_ he told Dean the spaghetti was life-changingly delicious, and he leaned toward Dean as soon as Dean joined them on the sofa, and — and — and—

And Dean is so screwed. He would laugh if it were anyone else, but the thought of it being anyone else that Cas was suddenly hanging around and doing these things with fills Dean with unprecedented crankiness, and shit, that means he’s _really_ screwed, doesn’t it?

Sam just reaches over and pats him on the shoulder, almost as if he read his mind.


	3. Part I: you set my soul on fire, laughing in the corner as it burns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: brief reference to homophobia (Dean reflects on not expecting to act on his attraction to men until he’s far from his father), slut-shaming (details in the notes), more teenager/2005-typical use of ‘girly’, a ‘not that kind of girl’ joke (that’s not an acceptable statement to use in earnest), a discussion labeling one party as ‘the girl’, which is played for humor but is not a valid discussion (gender should be irrelevant to relationship dynamic, and behavior should not be coded by gender or vice versa), man, this sounds bad, please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> I hope you’re all doing well, and thank you for reading ♡ Please enjoy.

> _Right between the ribs_
> 
> _It’s sinking in_
> 
> _Oh, oh, the sirens sang so sweet_
> 
> _And watched the sailors going down_
> 
> _Oh, oh, you talk to me in siren song_
> 
> _Yeah, anyone would drown_
> 
> _Anyone would drown . . ._
> 
> _\- Liar Liar, A Fine Frenzy_

Anyway, having an enormous crush on Cas Novak doesn’t _have_ to be a big deal, right? Especially since Dean’s still unsure of Cas’s motives in befriending him — or whatever it is he’s actually doing here — there’s nothing he can do about it, one way or another, so in the long run . . . well, what difference does it make?

At least, that’s what he tries to tell himself, following their weird dinner-and-a-movie night.Like, Cas is a good looking guy, sure, and his interactions with Dean are deliberately provocative, so of _course_ Dean’s hormones are gonna react, but having a — a _crush,_ doesn’t mean he’s going to start ordering custom pillowcases with the dude’s face on them and planning their wedding. Crushes don’t actually _mean_ anything; Dean and his friends probably have about fifty different crushes a year, and it’s, you know — _whatever._

There’s certainly no reason to make it a _thing._

Anyway, the most important thing is that however Dean might feel, it doesn’t matter. He’s welcome to lie awake at night, looking at the stars and pining if he really wants to (he doesn’t, thank God), but regardless of what he does — Cas isn’t interested like that. Sure, he clearly enjoys getting a rise out of Dean, but enjoying the power you have over a nerdy sophomore has zero to do with feelings, and as long as there’s no danger of Cas reciprocating whatever weird shit Dean’s got going on for him, then said weird shit doesn’t make a bit of difference, right?

And yet. _And yet._

It’s like it’s all Dean can think about.

A heavy arm lands across his shoulders, and Dean stumbles.

“Earth to Dean!” Garth chuckles. “Oh, man, Charlie sure wasn’t kidding! You’re all out of sorts today, aren’tcha? I thought you were gonna walk right into the lockers back there, you silly!”

Dean flushes.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t.” He’s not _that_ far gone.

(He thinks. He doesn’t actually remember the lockers.)

“’Course you didn’t, I made sure you got turned around the right direction. What’s goin’ on up there, anyway? I was just telling you about this sock puppet craft I did for Home Ec, and I’d be surprised if you heard a single word I said!”

Dean winces, guilty, but fortunately, Garth’s tone remains jovial, much more curious than offended.

“Aw, shit. Sorry, Garth. I wanna hear about that, I do, I just . . . I got some stuff going on.”

Garth gives him a big, knowing grin.

“’Stuff’ is named Casanovak, isn’t? Now that guy is _fine_ , even if you don’t like boys. You’ve been starin’ at him ever seen we got to high school, too, so it’s nice to see you gettin’ along.”

Dean stops, slipping out from under Garth’s arm, and it takes Garth a few steps to realize he’s not following.

“What’s the matter?” His eyes are big and innocent, crinkling at the corners, despite the confusion in his smile.

Still, he can’t be more confused than _Dean_ is.

“What — what do you mean, I’ve been staring?” He hastily makes up the distance between them, lowering his voice. “I stare at him?”

“Oh, all the time, Dean! Didn’t you know?”

“No? I didn’t think I was doing that.” Was he? “I mean, sure, there’s a lot of gossip goin’ around; I probably looked his way a few times.”

Garth chuckles, putting his arm around Dean again.

“Oh, more than a few times. But it looks like he’s been noticin’ you right back! Aw, you guys are just the cutest — makes me all warm and fuzzy!” Garth beams down at him, so pleased and sweet Dean ultimately doesn’t have the heart to scream in his face for a few minutes before fleeing to the janitor’s closet to hide like he wants to.

“Is that right,” he mutters, and Garth just nods and drags him forward. “But, uh, listen, Garth. I — hell, maybe I have been lookin’ at Cas more than I should, but we’re not -you know. Like _that._ ”

Garth blinks.

“Like what?”

“Like, you know. A thing.”

“Boyfriends?” he asks loudly, and Dean frantically shushes him. Fortunately, nobody seems to be paying attention.

“Yeah, boyfriends. We’re not, okay? And — and I don’t wanna be.” And he doesn’t. Dean knows he’s bi, he’s comfortable with his close friends knowing he’s bi, but theory and practice are two utterly different things and he doesn’t expect to get any practice in until he’s a comfortable fifty miles or so away from his dad.

He _can’t_ have a boyfriend right now, so — he doesn’t want one.

(Not that Cas is offering.)

Garth looks disappointed.

“But y’all look so cute together.”

“Thanks, Garth, but we’re not even f-or, well, we’re _just_ friends.”

For some reason, he brightens at that.

“Oh, I see. You’re takin’ your time! That’s good, Dean, that’s really good! My mama always said, the slower the start, the longer the burn.”

Dean has literally never heard that in his life, but okay.

“Yeah, but Garth, we’re not — we’re not burning, okay?”

Garth abruptly stops at that, doubling over and slapping his palms on his knees as he bursts into laughter, and Dean just stares back in agitated dismay before his friend finally wipes the tears away and shoots him a bright grin.

“Oh, that’s a good one, Dean. You two are practically on _fire_. Anyhow, I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”

And then he wanders off, still laughing happily to himself, and Dean desperately reminds himself that _it is not a problem._

Bela sets her sleek, undoubtedly-designer handbag on the bench just as Castiel moves to sit on it, and he quirks a brow at her, frowning slightly.

She simply smiles in response.

“Aren’t you going to go sit with your boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend, and I sat with him yesterday.”

“And it was amazing,” Gabriel tacks on gleefully. “He blushed eight times. We counted.”

Cas rolls his eyes, strangely irritated that Dean’s flustered reactions had been noted for the entertainment of his friends. Not that he wasn’t also amused, but-

“Good for you, but it would be weird if I suddenly stopped hanging out with my own friends.” He reaches for the bag, and Bela plants a palm beside it, shaking her head.

“It might be — unless you had a _massive_ crush on him. Which is what you’re trying to convince him of, isn’t it?”

He frowns. She has a point. And it’s not like it was a _hardship,_ exactly, to eat lunch with Dean and his friends, although it was uncomfortable how they were all looking at him.

“I suppose.”

Crowley offers him half a sandwich.

“Lunch for your troubles, Castiel? I must say, even without audio, it was a delight to watch. And since we can’t exactly follow you on your dates . . . this is really our only opportunity, isn’t it?”

That, also, was true. And like _hell_ would Cas consent to being watched on his dates. Not-dates. Whatever.

He accepts the sandwich.

“Fine. But only because I’m anxious to collect my two grand.”

“’Atta boy, Cassie. Go shake that moneymaker.”

“Fuck off, Gabe,” he mutters, and stalks away to the sound of their laughter.

He quickly remembers to relax, slowing his pace, lest the table of sophomores think there’s anything amiss, and he’s glad; today, nobody bothers to be subtle about their stares.

Charlie waves enthusiastically when he’s about five feet away, her grin sly.

“Why, hello there, Castiel! Fancy seeing you again!”

Probably forgetting that Cas, at a distance, can see, Dean kicks her under the table.

Cas doesn’t bother to suppress his smile.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he offers dryly. The others titter, Dean looking increasingly miserable all the while. He’s planted between two people today, but one of them jumps up and circles around to the second person’s other side, leaving a spot right next to him for Cas to take.

Grinning shamelessly, Castiel slides into it, pressing their shoulders together and relishing the way he can _feel_ Dean flinch.

Today, the blonde is sitting across from him, smirking at them like Christmas just came early, and when Cas raises a brow at her, she flicks her gaze to where their shoulders touch.

Then she just smirks harder.

“Actually, I didn’t get a chance to properly meet you all, yesterday,” he says, and Charlie smacks her forehead.

“Oh, my God, you’re right! How rude of Dean! Well, I’m Charlie — although we’ve met — and to Dean’s left . . .”

Introductions are quickly made, and Cas’s suspicions are confirmed; the blonde is Jo, a freshman and Mr. Singer’s daughter.

“So, how’d you and Dean meet, again?” she drawls, absentmindedly toying with a pocket knife. Cas can practically feel Dean glowering next to him, even if he can’t see it, and he shrugs, his shoulder rubbing against Dean’s with the motion.

Dean inhales quietly.

“I heard about D&D and it sounded cool, so I asked around and someone told me Dean played.”

More like he had Gabe and Crowley ask around about _Dean_ , but no one here needs to know that.

“Surprised they didn’t send you straight to Charlie,” she counters. “It’s not really what Dean’s known for.”

“Who knows?” Cas returns vaguely.

“Huh.” She pauses. Everybody’s looking at them curiously. “Fair enough. Though you don’t look like much of a D&D guy.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” he shoots back, unaccountably irritated. This had better not be another existing candidate for Dean’s affections. “After all, you look more like you should be in knife-fighting club.”

Jo stares for a second, and the rest of the table holds their breath.

And then she bursts out laughing.

“ _Knife-fighting —_ dude, there’s no _knife-fighting_ club! What the hell kind of school do you think we go to? Shit, though, it sounds amazing. I’d join the hell out of that club.”

Cas scowls at the table, hoping he’s not blushing. It was the first thing that came to mind, but next to him, even Dean is chuckling, and he can feel the vibrations in his shoulder.

(He’s pretty sure he’s started blushing.)

Charlie bites her lip, giving him a sympathetic smile.

“Anywho, no more giving Dean’s friend the third degree! Now, I know you said you weren’t ready for LARPing,” she continues, neatly ignoring her own rule, “But we were just talking about our upcoming Moondoor campaign and I _really_ think . . .”

By the end of lunch, Charlie still hasn’t convinced him, Jo is still casting him speculative looks, and Dean’s barely said anything at all. _However —_ at no point does he try and move away from Cas, even though he has a little space on his other side, and by the time the bell rings?

Cas feels strangely good about the whole thing.

“Cas!”

Cas wrinkles his nose, going cross-eyed as it is promptly booped for emphasis.

“Cas!” Claire repeats, chubby baby finger poking the tip once again, and he sits up, taking his nose out of reach.

“I think Claire-bear wants your attention, Uncle Cas,” Jimmy calls, throwing Cas an amused look from his perch at the writing desk in his in-laws’ living room.

“Claire,” Cas says, resisting her pout as she makes another grab for his face. “Wouldn’t you like to go hassle your daddy?”

“Hey!” Jimmy protests. “I have Calc homework.”

“Well, maybe you should have been more focused on your homework three years ago,” Cas mutters, and Jimmy snorts.

“Now, I know you don’t mean that, Cas. You’re just as much a sucker for that little angel as the rest of us. So maybe the timing wasn’t perfect; I still wouldn’t change it.”

They’ve had this talk often enough, and Cas knows that despite a shotgun wedding and parenthood at the tender age of 16, Jimmy means every word.

Of course, it probably doesn’t hurt that not only is Claire the cutest kid to ever crawl the earth, Amelia’s parents bought Jimmy a car when he and Amelia got married (thank God for Kansas laws protecting the legitimacy of their grandchildren despite the shady timeline on the sex, right?), his mother-in-law makes them dinner every night, _and_ they give both of them an allowance. Considering he knocked up and married his high school sweetheart, Jimmy has a shitload more independence than Cas — not to mention he actually _likes_ being in the place he lives.

Meanwhile, Cas bums _Snickers_ and assorted scraps from his friends because — well, he’s actually not sure what Mom and Dad think he’ll buy with the few dollars a basic lunch would cost, but he imagines it’s something like personal lubricant and flavored condoms.

And okay, maybe he _has_ purchased those things — but he wouldn’t use his _lunch money_ for it.

He scoops Claire up, depositing her in his lap with a _whump._ She giggles, twisting to peer up at him, and promptly goes for his nose again.

“What is it with you and the nose?” he grouses, poking her own nose back, and her eyes crinkle in delight.

“Umm. Cas!” she says again.

“I think it’s because you have my face,” Jimmy supplies, not looking up from his math textbook. “But she knows it’s not me.”

“Well, get used to it, urchin.” He tweaks a teeny-tiny toe, and just like that, Claire is laughing again. Cas frowns at her, unimpressed. “Are all babies this amused?”

“Oh, _boy_ , no. It feels like Claire cries all the time.”

“Really?” Cas obligingly grabs the book Claire’s reaching for, tucking it safely in her grasping hands. “She seems pretty happy whenever I see her.”

Jimmy sighs.

“Yep, Cas, I’ve noticed. Why do you think I ask you to watch her so often?”

“So you and Amelia are able to have alone time?”

“Ha! Listen, Richard and Melinda are second parents to me, but that is one thing they don’t indulge us on. Even though we’re _married!_ ”

“Well, given your track record—"

“Oh, shut up.”

Reluctantly, Cas smiles, then dodges as Claire suddenly shoves the book in his face.

“Cas, _read_!” she demands, and Cas rolls his eyes, taking the book and flipping it open while she claps excitedly.

“Oh, to be an infant. So cute you are denied nothing.”

“Don’t worry Cas, you’re plenty cute, too, if I do say so myself,” Jimmy offers cheekily. “And last I heard about it, nobody at your school would deny you anything, either.”

“Somebody might,” Cas says without thinking, and _now_ Jimmy sets his pencil down.

“What’s this?”

“What?”

Claire grabs at the book impatiently, but he shushes her, promising ‘one minute.’

“Somebody turned you down? And you’re bothered by it?”

“They did not _turn me down_ ,” he protests hastily. “They’re simply proving . . . reticent.”

“Woah, champ, that makes you sound a little skeevy.” Despite the humor in his tone, Jimmy looks concerned, and Cas, too, is concerned, because Jimmy calls him ‘champ’ sometimes now that he’s a parent and it makes zero sense. Cas is twelve whole minutes older, after all, and also — _what eighteen-year-old calls people_ champ _?_

“I’m not being skeevy. I am aware that no means no, but I haven’t even asked him anything.”

“Him?” Jimmy echoes, and Cas tenses. Jimmy is supportive enough about the whole bisexuality thing, but Cas knows it still makes him uncomfortable. He had admitted, once, that he felt like people would assume _he_ was, too, since they were identical; Cas had pointed out that he was an inch taller than Jimmy, not to mention he spoke a few octaves deeper, not to mention his hair was a little lighter, so _obviously_ there were other factors at play here.

Jimmy’d looked thoughtful, and proposed they might be like Mary-Kate and Ashley.

Cas had thrown a pillow at his head.

“Yes, _him._ Dean Winchester,” he adds, and Claire slumps against him with a huff. He pats her head. “Sorry, urchin. We’ll read in just a second.”

“Dean _Winchester_? As in, related to John Winchester?” In his lap, Claire begins flipping through the book on her own, pressing mysteriously sticky palms to the pages as she goes.

“Uh, yes?” Did _everybody_ know who these people were? “You’ve heard of him? Them?”

“Uh, yeah? Even going to St. Paul’s, you read about Coach Winchester in the paper. His son’s _gay_?”

Cas hesitates.

“No, probably not.” Jimmy lives on the other end of town, and doesn’t really associate much with people outside of his own school and church, but Cas is still not going to risk sharing Dean’s secrets.

“Well, there’s your answer, isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. He could be somewhere on the spectrum. He just — doesn’t trust my motives.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Ah — that is, my reputation precedes me.”

Jimmy hums.

“We all told you that would come back to bite you,” he admonishes, shaking his head, and Cas rolls his eyes. His brother isn’t finished, though. “Mom always said, someday you’d meet someone special, and they’d have doubts about the kind of person who’d shared themselves with so many other people before.”

Cas makes a fist against the carpet, and Claire abruptly freezes, swiveling her head to peer up at him, blue eyes big and worried.

He calms himself, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead, and she relaxes.

“That, actually, is not the issue. I don’t think Dean would care if I’d been with a _thousand_ people before, if he were interested in me,” he adds spitefully, and is startled to find he actually believes it.

Jimmy makes a face.

“Uh. But — you haven’t, have you?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

His brother frowns.

“I know you don’t have much faith in these things, but—"

“ _Sorry_ ,” Cas snaps. “For _Pete’s_ sake, or whoever. Like I said, that’s not the point. The point is that I believe he thinks — he _assumes_ that’s what I’d want from him, just because it’s all I’ve wanted from other people.”

Jimmy frowns.

“Well — is he wrong?”

Indignation flares quickly within Cas — and just as quickly, turns to cold ash.

Because Cas _doesn’t_ want to sleep with Dean. Cas doesn’t even really want to date him; his friends are paying him to do it.

He slumps, wrapping an arm around Claire, who simply laughs and squirms, happy for the attention.

“Yes. He’s wrong. I don’t want that from him. I just want to be his friend.”

And maybe that’s a lie, but it’s the most truth he can bring himself to admit to; Jimmy wouldn’t approve at all, if he knew the whole story.

He wouldn’t understand _._

“Oh.” Jimmy blinks. “Well, that’s really nice, Cas. I always thought you needed different friends.”

And Cas appreciates where the sentiment comes from, he really does; his brother loves him, very much, and wants him to be happy.

But he understands what that would take even less than Cas himself, and that’s saying something.

“Right.” He sighs. “Anyway, I should read Claire her book before she has a tantrum.”

“Don’t tease,” she declares happily, thrusting the book at him on cue.

“Of course,” Jimmy agrees, picking up his pencil. “And these equations sure won’t solve themselves.”

So Jimmy does his homework and Cas reads Claire a disturbingly specific story about not teasing weasels, and when all is said and done, he feels considerably less good about things than he had that afternoon.

The thing is, Dean is assuming Cas doesn’t want to sleep with him.

Like, why _would_ he?

But Cas seems to be making a habit of sitting with him at lunch, and staring at him in the halls, and waiting for him after practice just to say ‘hello, Dean,’ quietly perching next to him until Sam shows up on the days Dean gets there first. It’s Friday now, and once again, Sam has completely ignored Dean’s significant eye contact and invited Cas to watch the second Harry Potter. Worse still, Cas has _accepted_.

So even though Dean knows not to hold his breath, he finds _himself_ making a habit of thinking about how blue Cas’s eyes are, and how he stares at Dean with such _focus,_ and how all his cool t-shirts manage to be a little too big and yet do nothing to disguise those crazy hips, and also how everything he’s ever heard about Cas’s, uh, extracurriculars, suggests that if for some reason Cas _did_ want to sleep with him (and Dean completely lost his mind and agreed), he would probably not have any complaints afterward.

Anyway, it all makes keeping his cool around the guy surprisingly difficult, even though it’ll never, in a million years, be an issue, no matter what his kindhearted-but-naive friend says about them being on fire.

It’s a one-way flame, if that’s the case.

Cas drives them back to Dean’s place again, and they split up, Sam and Cas plunking down on the sofa to chat while Dean cooks dinner and interrupts with the occasional daring one-liner, which Cas never fails to smile at. It’s the kind of smile that barely touches his lips, but shines in his eyes, and it’s almost like they’ve done this a hundred times before instead of just the once.

Dean’s heart feels three sizes too big in his chest by the time they’ve all got bowls of stir fry and Sam has once again arranged things so Cas is right next to Dean, and that, too, makes it hard to keep his cool.

Their elbows brush as they eat, and when Cas finishes his bowl well after Sam and Dean have scarfed theirs down, he leans forward to set it on the coffee table — only to end up pressed right against Dean’s side when he sits back.

Dean doesn’t say anything, and after thirty minutes of trying to breathe normally so Cas doesn’t notice anything amiss, he somehow summons enough courage to lean, ever-so-slightly, back into him.

Cas’s head immediately drops onto Dean’s shoulder, dark hair tickling against his neck, and Dean-

Dean doesn’t catch a single goddamn thing that happens in the rest of the movie.

They don’t mention it, even when Sam mysteriously disappears to the bathroom so Dean is left to see Cas out by himself, but Dean lies awake for a long time that night, wondering what it means.

Dean, as it turns out, has a surprisingly comfortable shoulder.

In fact, of all the shoulders Cas has ever leaned on in his life (though they are admittedly few), Dean possesses the shoulder best-suited to the task.

He’s not sure what to make of that, or how to interpret the fact that Dean lets him rest his head against it for a good sixty-five minutes afterward. Dean acts with disappointing normalcy as he walks Cas to the front door, when the movie’s over, and Cas-

Cas goes home . . . _frustrated._

He shouldn’t be; that was considerable progress, wasn’t it? Physically, it would be the closest they’d gotten, and Dean had even been the one to initiate it. (Well, kind of. He at least hadn’t stopped it, even if it had been unintentional, despite his habit of flinching any time Cas got close.)

Still — Cas hadn’t been expecting it, hadn’t planned for it, and as soon as he felt that barely discernible increase in pressure from Dean’s arm, it was like his head dropped sideways of its own volition. And maybe that was normal, for people accustomed to huddling up with others or even, god forbid, _cuddling_ , but Cas certainly wasn’t.

And then he’d just stayed there, half-curious to see how long it would take before Dean became uncomfortable and shifted away, and half too-comfortable-to-move-away himself, and since _Dean_ didn’t move and Cas didn’t _want_ to move, they’d simply sat like that.

For the rest of the movie.

At which point Dean _should_ have gotten endearingly flustered and been awkward about it, but he hadn’t. He’d just rolled his shoulders, stretching a little, and asked if Cas was heading out.

Like it was nothing.

So Cas had thought, perhaps the Weird Moment would happen at the door, when they said goodbye — especially since Sam made himself conspicuously scarce at that point — but no. Dean thanked him for coming over, apologized if Sam was too high-pressure about it, and waved him out with an easy, “’Night, man.”

Which leaves Cas lying in his bed, staring up at his ceiling, and wondering.

Is Dean getting too comfortable around him? That _should_ be a good thing, but not if it means Dean stops noticing him like — like _that._ And if he is — why? Is _Cas_ getting too comfortable around Dean? He _had_ reflexively laid his head on Dean’s shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world, but maybe he shouldn’t have. Maybe things like that just make him less mysterious and intimidating, alter his image to one so approachable Dean is at once less unnerved and less interested. In fact, maybe Cas should have been doing something to get Dean to lean on _his_ shoulder. And then _he_ should have been the one nonchalantly bidding farewell while Dean tripped over himself with confusion, lying awake with his thoughts full of Cas.

This is _entirely_ unacceptable.

(Because Cas doesn’t want to lose the bet, of course.)

And yet, just as he resolves to remind Dean exactly with whom he’s dealing, Cas wonders if perhaps this was a _good_ thing. Hadn’t Dean been suspicious of his company, resistant to accepting it? If he feels relaxed around Cas, if he lets his guard down, then Cas simply has to wait for an opening when surprise, combined with an existing affection for him, will leave Dean vulnerable to his advances, right?

He rolls over with a heavy sigh, torn between strategies. If he just knew Dean a little bit better, he might have more confidence in one or the other, but as it stands . . . he simply can’t be sure.

Which means he’ll just have to play it by ear, because he’s certainly not giving up.

With this unsatisfactory conclusion in mind, Cas ignores the odd sense of anticipation that nonetheless accompanies it, and at last, allows himself to sleep.

“So, like, you cuddled while you watched Harry Potter?”

“We didn’t _cuddle—"_

“Yeah, no, it’s love.”

Dean turns scarlet.

“ _Jo—"_

“Whatever, Dean. I’m happy for you. You’ve found your little nerd soulmate.”

Dean scoffs.

“What is it with you people calling him _little_? He’s tall.”

“He’s barely average, Dean. You’re just a shrimp.”

“Hey, I’m _not—"_

The doorbell rings, and Dean freezes, the rest of his words dying in his mouth.

Jo smirks.

“You gonna get that?”

“It might not be him,” he tries, at which point Charlie pokes her head in from the kitchen.

“Would you get the door, Dean?” she requests sweetly. “I’m all tied up with snacks.”

“Of course you are.” Charlie has been ‘all tied up’ with this or that since Dean got there, insisting that, as her loyal handmaiden, he answer the door basically every time it rings.

For whatever he reason, he’s been doing it.

Despite his reluctant consultation with his friends, Dean’s still not sure what the head-on-the-shoulder thing meant. While Jo and Charlie and Garth are convinced that Cas is madly in love with Dean, Benny and Eileen agreed that his sudden interest is sketchy as hell (no offense).

Dean’s inclined to agree with them, but that doesn’t stop his heart from launching into an offbeat orchestral travesty as he shuffles to the front door for the fourth time that evening, even though he’s not even sure Cas’ll show.

With a deep breath, he throws open the door, fully expecting Garth to be looming on the welcome mat, but instead he finds-

“Hello, Dean.”

The color floods his cheeks against his will, and suddenly, all the cool he mustered last night during his goodbye is nowhere to be found.

Dean clears his throat, leaning casually against the door jamb as he looks up into blue, blue eyes.

“H-hey, Cas. Didn’t know if you were gonna make it.”

Cas steps forward.

“It would be rude not to, after you kindly invited me. Besides, I told you I would.”

And then he takes another step closer, and another, and Dean’s rapidly getting alarmed by the proximity, unsure why Cas thinks it’s okay to just keep _advancing_ like that when-

A choked off laugh sounds behind him.

“Uh, Dean, you gonna let him through?” Jo calls, and Dean practically slides off the doorframe as he stumbles back.

“Yeah, yeah, of course, sorry, you should’ve said, uh—"

Jo isn’t bothering to hide her laughter, and Dean doesn’t doubt his embarrassment is all over his face.

Still, Cas just smiles serenely and stares into his eyes for a few more seconds, like he can’t even hear Jo, and then finally, moves into the house.

“You’re fine, Dean. We were chatting, after all.”

“Right. But, um, you know. S’cold. Shouldn’t . . . shouldn’t make a guest stand outside all night.”

Cas lifts a brow.

“As much as I wanted to be here, I don’t think I would have waited for you _all night._ ” Cas’s tone is dry, and Dean knows the emphasis is part of the joke he’s making — but still, it sounds dirty and suggestive all at once by virtue of the fact that he utters it in that stupid low, grumbly voice of his, and a few of the higher processes Dean’s brain sort of cease for a moment.

Jo, for her part, is apparently having some kind of seizure as she heaves herself through the kitchen doorway, and Dean-

Dean hopes she actually chokes.

“’Course not,” he mumbles, sidling away to follow her. “Uh, come on in. They’re gettin’ the snacks ready, so we’ll probably start after that.”

“Alright.” Cas moves after him, sticking close enough that their elbows occasionally brush. “So — tonight I’ll just watch you, right?”

Is it because Dean’s (almost) sixteen? Is that it? Is that why everything Cas says sounds kind of . . .

He clears his throat.

“Yeah, for now you’ll just watch us,” he confirms, trying not to put too much emphasis on the _us._ After all, that’s what Cas had meant when he’d said _you._ It was a ‘you all’ _you,_ not a ‘you, Dean’ _you._ Dean’s just being hypersensitive because they didn’t-cuddle while watching Harry Potter.

They enter the kitchen, which is mysteriously quiet all of the sudden, and Charlie lights up.

“Cas! I’m so glad you made it, Dean was really worried you wouldn’t come.”

“Ah, there was no need. That’s generally not a problem for me.”

Charlie tilts her head, puzzled, and behind her Benny drops the brownie spatula with a muffled snort.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing,” Cas says quickly, and Dean optimistically inches backward, because even if the floor refuses to unhinge its linoleum jaw and swallow him whole, he might still be able to escape this moment. “I was really looking forward to being here, is all I meant.”

“Oh. Okay, cool. Well, we’re just getting some snacks ready — it’s hungry work, you know — and then we’ll be off! In the meantime, _Dean,_ why don’t you fill Cas in?”

“Yes, Dean,” Cas says, turning around just as Dean is about to back over the threshold, figuring if anyone asks where he went, he can just say ‘bathroom.’ “You don’t mind . . . filling me in, do you?”

Dean freezes, narrowing his eyes at Cas; his expression is perfectly neutral, eyes open and curious, but his tone is faintly deliberate, enough that Dean’s brain unhelpfully jumps right to the innuendo in the words.

“Uh,” he starts. “N-no. Not at all, man, let’s just — go to the — the, uh, the room.”

“Lead the way.”

Dean swallows, guiding Cas out of the kitchen and toward the dining room, where their board is laid out, along with a pile of character sheets.

As they leave, Dean swears he hears someone in the kitchen go, “Jesus _Christ._ ”

It doesn’t go that badly, actually, except for the part where Cas stares at Dean almost exclusively, only looking away if someone else starts talking for more than five seconds. Dean tries really hard to pretend not to notice — and to not stare back — but he has to be prompted to take his turn three times, and more than once asks Charlie to repeat herself.

Whenever this happens, Cas gets this little _smile_ on his face, one Dean is hard-pressed to interpret, but by which he is nonetheless deeply unnerved.

It doesn’t help that it causes everybody _else_ to stare at Dean, too.

But yeah, other than that, it’s fine. Charlie gives Cas some info on character creation so he can join in next time, a choice Dean heartily encourages. After all, if Cas is playing the game, then maybe he’ll be too busy to look at _Dean_.

Cas thanks her and the rest of them for letting him be there, and then, through some unclear sequence of events, Dean finds himself walking Cas out.

“But I promised you I’d help clean up,” he reminds Charlie, and swears he sees Cas’s lips twitch.

She shakes her head emphatically.

“Oh, no, don’t be silly!” Naturally, she fails to explain why exactly that’s silly. “You go ahead. You probably wanna get home and check on Sam, right?”

Which — she’s not _wrong._ And walking Cas out can only take so long, right? So it shouldn’t be _too_ bad, even if he is still zoning out to thoughts of a warm weight on his shoulder.

“Yeah, alright. C’mon, Cas.”

They head out of the house in silence, strolling down the driveway to the street, where Dean casually glances around for Cas’s car.

He doesn’t find it.

“Uh. Not to beat a dead horse, but dude, where’s your car?”

Cas makes a face at the joke, then sighs.

“I . . . forgot, about my curfew last night.”

Dean’s brows shoot up.

“You have a curfew?” That hardly fits with Cas’s image, but then, ‘religious’ and ‘strict’ tend to go hand-in-hand, as far as parents are concerned.

Cas glares at him, almost as though he can read his thoughts.

“It’s stupid, and I’d ignore it, except my use of my vehicle is dependent upon my following it.”

 _If I break curfew, mom and dad will take my car away,_ basically. Dean winces, sympathetic.

“Sorry. If I’d have known, we could have stopped the movie early.”

Cas shrugs.

“I wasn’t ready to leave yet,” he says, fixing Dean with an inscrutable look, and for the fiftieth time that day, Dean thinks about the not-cuddle.

“Still,” he manages. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright, Dean. It was my choice. And it’s only for a week.”

Dean frowns, but nods, and they start walking. Dean’s not sure exactly where Cas lives, but it must be nearby if the Winchester house is on his running route.

Cas gradually picks up the pace, and about three minutes in, Dean realizes he’s started shivering, which in turn causes him to realize-

“Shit, did you leave your coat at Charlie’s?”

“Uh. No. I — I left it at home,” Cas mutters, embarrassment clear on his face even in the dim light of the streetlamps.

Dean stares at the thin, cotton sleeves of the shirt he wears under his also thin, cotton bandshirt in disbelief. He has his arms folded against the cold, and come to think of it, Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen him in a sweater, let alone a jacket.

He tells Cas as much.

“Like, do you even know where it is?”

Cas is looking a little red, but then, the streetlights have a distinctly orange cast, so maybe it’s just an illusion.

“I know where it is,” he insists darkly. “I just — forget it, a lot. I’m often in a hurry.”

Dean rolls his eyes, and after a moment of brief hesitation, stops to strip off his big leather jacket. He has long sleeves, a flannel over-shirt, and a hoodie underneath — you know, since he knew he’d be _walking_ in the late November night — so he should be okay. Even if he’s a _little_ cold, it’s better than Cas fucking _freezing._

“Put it on,” he grumbles, thrusting the jacket toward Cas, who has also come to a stop and is regarding Dean with surprised eyes.

“Uh. But — what about you?”

Dean shakes his layer-clad arm at him.

“I’m not a dumbass, so I’ll be fine.”

Cas narrows his eyes, but slips the jacket on.

It’s one of Dad’s old castoffs, and it’s way too big for Dean. On Cas, it still hangs off his lean frame, but it looks disheveled and cool in a way it just doesn’t on Dean.

“Figures,” he mutters, and Cas lifts a questioning brow. He sighs. “Looks better on you.”

Cas smiles a little.

“Does that mean I can keep it?”

“Hell no. And if you forget it next time, I’m not helpin’ you out again,” he threatens, though he doubts his own words. He doesn’t like being all bundled up while Cas shivers uncontrollably beside him, nose turning red from the cold. It makes him feel like a dick.

Cas is still shivering a little, but he’s clearly warming up with the jacket on, a small smile on his face.

“What?” Dean asks warily. Cas shrugs, fixing him with a sidelong glance.

“It’s still warm.”

Dean trips on a particularly large rock that must have escaped from the landscaping and curses. Cas chuckles quietly and just keeps on walking, and Dean has to jog a few paces to catch up.

“Yeah, well, don’t get too comfortable. I expect to get it back when we get to my stop.”

“No,” Cas says, and Dean glares at him.

“Uh, I’m pretty sure the conditions were—"

“ _Actually,_ ” Cas interrupts, smirking. “You didn’t really state any conditions when you offered it to me. However, I will be returning the jacket to you; it’s just that my stop is first.”

Dean relaxes, mollified.

“Oh. Yeah, I guess I should’ve thought of that. I don’t know where you live.”

“No? So you just watch me run.”

“Oh, shut up,” Dean mumbles, but he can’t help smiling. Some part of him likes that he and Cas have an inside-joke of sorts, even if it is at his expense.

“Never,” Cas promises, and they proceed in merry silence until they turn the block and come to an unassuming two-storey house, porchlights bright and casting shadows across the driveway. Cas lifts his arm, tugging the jacket sleeve back to peer at his watch. “Ah, with fifteen minutes to spare. Frowns instead of lectures.”

His tone is joking, but Dean hears the truth in it, as well, and it makes him sad. His own father is pretty strict, too, and though he knows Dad loves him and Sammy, sometimes it’s hard not to feel like their obedience matters more than their feelings; and even when Dean follows all the rules, he still gets this vague impression of _disappointment_ from his dad.

He’s not sure what he can do differently.

“Well, thank you for a lovely evening, Dean,” Cas says.

“Sure.” Dean remembers Cas dropping him off at his house, and grins. “Want me to walk you to the door?”

Cas smirks back.

“Are you hoping for a goodnight kiss?” he teases, and even though Dean _knows_ he’s just joking, his mouth falls open a little and he finds himself stammering out a denial.

“N-no, of course not, I just — because the other night, you — oh, whatever. You’re not funny,” he complains, but it’s a few more seconds before Cas stops laughing.

“Relax. I know you’re not that kind of girl,” he mocks, and Dean is glaring pretty hard at him when he reaches out and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, grin softening into a genuine smile. “Seriously, though — you’d better not, lest my family invite you in or something. Trust me, you don’t want that.”

Dean shrugs, ignoring the weight of Cas’s hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll take your word for it, then,” he agrees, unwilling to admit he’s kind of curious. “But I do want my jacket back.”

Cas sighs.

“And here I was hoping you’d forgotten. Very well.” He pulls his hand back and shrugs out of the jacket, handing it to Dean. “Thank you. The walk back was much more pleasant than the walk there.”

“Any time,” Dean replies automatically, and Cas lifts his brows.

“Really? Five minutes ago, you said—"

“Yeah, I know, I just meant — go inside,” he says tiredly, rolling his eyes, and that butterfly-inducing grin flashes across Cas’s face once more.

“No need to be cranky about it.” He meets Dean’s eyes, his own bright with mirth and something that almost looks like _fondness._ “Good night, Dean. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Dean, of course, can’t help but smile back.

“Yeah, sure. G’night, Cas.”

He walks home, grinning and distracted, and it’s only as he’s trying to unlock the front door that he realizes he forgot to put the jacket back on.

“I thought we told you not to come back here,” Bela scolds, but Cas is pretty sure she’s missed him, since she moves her bag to clear a space.

He plunks down without ceremony.

“And I told you, it’s a _little_ weird to suddenly cut off contact with my friends.”

“Not when you have a crush—"

“Especially when I have a crush. If I really want to be convincing, I need to come sit with you so we can all sneak obvious glances at Dean and then dissolve into whispers and giggles.” Not to mention he prefers to spend his time with _just_ Dean. Cas likes Dean’s friends, and watching them play Dungeons and Dragons was about a hundred times more fun than he’d anticipated, but given a choice, he’d rather be alone with him. Dean’s more guarded around his friends — probably with an audience, in general — and it wasn’t until they were out of Charlie’s house and walking home that Cas felt like Dean was both being himself and actually enjoying Cas’s company.

Bela grins up at him, sliding a little styrofoam container with a side salad in it his way. Salad is . . . _really_ not his favorite, but it’s better than nothing. He supposes he _could_ use the money Crowley’s given him and just buy a lunch, but a part of him’s reluctant to spend it.

He might need it later, after all.

“Touche,” she agrees, then sets half a gyro on top of the salad he just opened, at which he brightens considerably.

“So,” Gabe prompts, once Cas has settled in and taken a few bites of it. “How _is_ your courtship moving along? Give us all the dirty deets. Are you his first kiss, or are nerds as free-lovin’ as I’ve been told?”

Cas makes a face.

“We’re not really anywhere near the kissing stage, Gabe. And I have not actually heard that about nerds, so.” He doesn’t think Dean is, anyway. He’s not sure if Dean’s kissed anybody — he seems to have plenty of friends, even if none of them are particularly popular, so it’s entirely likely — but he doubts Dean could reasonably be described as ‘free-lovin’. “But I think it’s going well, anyway. Friday night I watched the second Harry Potter movie at his house,” he tells them, and while he automatically leaves out the part where Sam was there, too, he’s not sure why he leaves out the semi-cuddle. The fact that it wasn’t necessarily planned beforehand still makes him uncomfortable. “And on Saturday, I went with him to play D&D with his friends.”

Crowley narrows his eyes.

“Cute — but hardly romantic.”

“I found our movie-watching very romantic,” he counters, and it’s only half a lie.

“Watching a movie together is practically the definition of courtship for our age group,” Bela chimes in, but Crowley just shakes his head.

“Perhaps, but you did that already, so it isn’t progress. And the other thing is _embarrassing,_ at best.”

Bela scowls.

“Gabriel, what do you think?”

“Hm,” Gabe muses, drawing out the sound as he drums his fingers against the table. “I hate to say it — especially because I _love_ the idea of Cassie putting on his robe and his wizard hat—"

“That did not happen,” Cas interjects, and is ignored.

“- but Crowley’s right. D&D is board-certified friend-zone advancement.”

“No such board exists,” he growls, offended, and Gabe waves his hand.

“Sorry, Cassie. I don’t make the rules.”

“You’re literally the judge—"

“Anywho, I’ll count it — _if_ you can give us some more detail to suggest it had a sexy spin.” Gabe waggles his brows. “ _Did_ you put on your robe and your wizard hat?”

Cas sighs, realizing when he’s sunk-

Except _wait._

“No,” he says slowly. “I did not put on — those. But I _did_ put on his jacket.”

“Oh?” Bela straightens beside him. “What does that mean?”

“He walked me home from Charlie’s,” Cas tells them, trying not to be smug. He should have thought of it sooner. “And since I’d forgotten my jacket, he loaned me his.”

Crowley scowls, obviously recognizing his defeat, but Gabe has started loudly guffawing.

“What?” Cas demands.

“Uh, nothing, except, _oh my God —_ you’re the girl!”

“ _What_?” Cas repeats, startled. “What does that mean? How am I the girl?”

“You aren’t,” Bela assures him smoothly, and Gabe and Crowley both shake their heads.

“He really is,” Crowley insists, spiteful.

“He’s not. Castiel, did you deliberately leave your jacket at home so Dean would offer you his?”

“No.” That would be absurd, after all.

“Then you’re not the girl. Only a man goes out underdressed in cold weather without meaning to.”

Cas flinches a little, because he definitely meant to, just not for the reason discussed.

“Uh. Yeah. Right.”

“In any case, that’s straight out of a teenage rom-com. Or a Nicholas Sparks book.”

“You read Nicholas Sparks?” Gabe queries, surprised.

“God, no, but one of them was called _A Walk to Remember_ , so I assume that was the plot.”

“Yeah, not quite,” Gabe mutters, and Crowley gives him a sharp look. He shrugs. “What, stepmom leaves ‘em in the bathroom! What else am I supposed to do while I poop?”

Bela frowns at him, disturbed.

“I’m . . . not really sure, but I don’t care to hear about it, whatever it is.” She clears her throat. “As we were saying — Dean loaned you that awful, shabby thing he insists on wearing, presumably as a symbol of his manliness, and walked you home. Does that sound like friend-zone behavior to any of you?”

Crowley sighs, stabbing a piece of chicken in his takeout container.

“No.”

“Then I believe you owe him some money,” Bela concludes smugly, and Crowley reluctantly reaches for his wallet.

“Not here,” Cas says quickly, stopping him. “In case they’re watching.”

“They can’t possibly know what it’s for.”

“Still,” Cas says. “Later.”

“Very well.”

The realization that he needs to be careful of that at all somewhat dampens his pleasure at the victory, but Cas shoves the feeling down. Crowley owes him a hundred bucks later, and if he keeps it up, he stands to win a lot more; in the end, it’ll all be entirely worth it.

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** SPOILERS **
> 
> Slut-shaming: Cas confides some of his troubles in Jimmy, stating that his reputation precedes him as a reason for Dean’s wariness. Jimmy basically reminds him that they all warned him his promiscuity would come back to bite him, and that their mother had told him when he found someone special, that someone would have reservations about being with someone who had had so many previous partners. To be clear, if someone is uncomfortable with another person’s sexual history, that is their issue; if a person is doing what makes them happy, and they are doing it safely and with appropriate care/respect to themselves and to whomever they might be doing it with, then they’re doing it right, and anyone who thinks shame has a place in that is wrong.


	4. Part I: give it everything, everything that you've got

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: more problematic usage of ‘girl,’ implied homophobia (Cas’s mother questions him about Dean, clearly concerned), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> Mild disclaimer: 2005 was a long time ago, and my memory on the cell phone situation for all the specific years is understandably fuzzy, so please forgive me any errors.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoy! ♡

> _Just when you think that it will never get you_
> 
> _It comes and throws a lightning bolt right at you_
> 
> _Before you know it, now your pulse starts racing_
> 
> _And now your blood is running hot like crazy . . ._
> 
> _\- Shock Me Into Love, Lenka_

On Wednesday, his mother starts asking questions, which Cas supposes he should have expected, but honestly, it never crossed his mind.

“Did you join a club or something, sweetheart?” she asks over dinner, looking a little hopeful, although the last time he tried to join a club — the GSA — she made him quit.

Stupidly, he fails to make the connection, spooning some mac & cheese into his mouth; there’s way too much Velveeta in it and Cas still shudders to think about the time he read the ingredients label on the hot dogs, but it’s Samandriel’s favorite and Disappointments™ apparently don’t get dinner votes. (Or they do, in theory, but those votes are _conspicuously_ ignored.)

“Uh, no?”

His mother’s small smile tightens, though it doesn’t disappear.

“Oh?” she says, concern transparent. “I just thought — you know. You stay after school almost every day now.”

It’s true; Cas sits by the entrance doing his homework and then chats with Sam after Math Club lets out, until football practice is over and Dean shows up (barring the rare occasion Dean gets there first). Cas intends to start giving them a ride home once he gets his car back, since it’s close enough that driving the extra block every day should completely escape his parents’ notice, but for now, they all walk together.

(Although, he wouldn’t necessarily be _surprised_ if it turned out they calculated exactly how much mileage he should be putting on the damn thing. Cas’s cell phone is for emergencies only, and they certainly enforce _that._ To the best of his knowledge, they don’t listen in on his house phone calls, at least.)

“Um, yeah. I just . . . work on homework.”

“Can’t you do it at home?” she presses. “You have done before; no one called us about any problems.”

Even if Cas weren’t hellbent on going to college just to get away from _here,_ he’d still do his homework. Nobody really starts anything with him, nowadays, but anytime the school called about his fighting, his parents were _insufferable._ He’d tried ignoring the punishments, but Cas, embarrassingly, despises getting yelled at, and standing there while his father unleashed a torrent of loud verbal fury on him was only marginally better than having his mother follow him around the house performing quiet, tearful rants of disappointment.

So long as Cas obeys, they leave him alone, which is just how he likes it.

“I can,” he agrees haltingly. “But — you know. School is designed to be the, uh, ideal environment. For such things.”

Across the table, Rachel snorts, because she’s unhelpful like that, and it’s clear his mother’s not buying it. Of course, she’s always suspicious of Cas, these days.

“Well. I hope you’re not getting into trouble with those friends of yours. Pillars of the community or not, it’s easy for parents to spoil a child into bad behavior. We’ve all heard the stories.”

Cas stifles his sigh by sticking a spoonful of macaroni in it.

“Mm,” he mumbles, and Hester narrows her eyes, recognizing it for the non-answer it is.

“Unless,” she says slowly. “This has something to do with that _boy_ you were with last weekend.”

Cas freezes, and some of his siblings finally look up from their dinner, sensing drama.

“What boy?” Hannah asks, because she’s like Cas was at that age; overly-curious and bad at reading a room.

“Well,” Hester says, twisting her forkful of macaroni without putting it to her mouth. “Last weekend, Castiel said he would be playing games at a friend’s house, and there was a boy with him when he got home.”

“He wasn’t — _with_ me,” Cas protests. “He was one of the other people playing the board game. We left at the same time and he lives a street over. It’s not a big deal.”

“You were wearing his coat.”

Cas gapes at her; for God’s sake _,_ how long was she watching?

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” she snaps. “You barely made your curfew, and a mother worries.”

 _I’m sure she does,_ Cas thinks bitterly.

“Well, _don’t_ worry, because it was nothing. It was colder than I thought, and since Dean had on a bunch of sh-stuff under it, he loaned it to me for the walk. He was being _nice._ Or would you rather the neighborhood was full of hooligans?”

Hester lifts her chin with a sniff, and Cas knows if his dad wasn’t working late, he’d be getting chewed out right now.

“I clearly have at least _one_ in my house.”

Cas sets his fork down and moves to get up.

“ _Sit,_ ” she commands, and reluctantly, he drops back into his chair. “I am asking you these questions, because any decent parent wants to know who their child is spending time with. It is not unreasonable for me to expect answers — and civility — in return.”

And she’s right — it all sounds very reasonable when she puts it like that.

But Cas isn’t stupid, and he’s not a child, and he knows what those questions were really about.

“Fine,” he mutters, conscious of the awkwardness permeating the room as all his siblings pretend to be very interested in the tablecloth, and she glares.

“Tell me about — Dean?”

He sighs.

“I mostly did. I don’t know him well,” which is true, but doesn’t feel true, “And he lives in the neighborhood. He was playing the game with the rest of us, and he felt bad for me because I was shivering. If it’s any consolation, he was extremely vocal about wanting his jacket back as soon as we got to my house.”

His mother relaxes, no doubt envisioning exactly what he meant for her to — a normal, _straight_ boy who was kindhearted enough to offer his coat, but still appropriately uncomfortable with the gesture.

Cas is just glad he had the sense to tell her he was at Bela’s the nights he was watching Harry Potter. His parents are pretty sure the rich, beautiful Bela Talbot would never stoop to unholy fornication with Cas, but also harbor hopes that he may develop an unrequited crush on her that cures him of his desire to leer at people with dicks.

“What is his last name?”

“Winchester.”

Hester perks up at that.

“Not John Winchester’s son?”

“The very same,” Cas says dryly, not entirely sure if this will work for or against him.

“He plays football, doesn’t he?”

“So I hear.”

“That’s nice.” She mulls over this for a moment. “I believe his mother was the Campbells’ daughter. Samuel and Deanna are wonderfully devout; it’s a shame John stopped attending after his wife passed.”

Cas is still not sure if these little tidbits operate in his favor or not, although the piece about Dean’s mom piques his curiosity. He deduced that she wasn’t around, although he didn’t know why.

“Well, I wouldn’t know. Dean and I don’t really travel in the same circles,” he adds, hoping his mother will draw the wrong conclusions about why that is.

“I suppose not. I remember football players,” she sighs, and _yes_ , there it is. “Although his ego can’t be too terrible if he was nice enough to lend you his jacket.”

“I guess not. We didn’t say much to each other.” Dean’s face when Cas brought up a goodnight kiss flashes through his mind, and it’s a struggle to hold back a grin.

His mother hums noncommittally.

“Well, remember your coat next time,” she says, and then she’s turning to Hannah, asking if she got her art project back from Ms. Gardner. Art is not Hannah’s strong suit, and completing the project was deeply frustrating for her, especially since Hester’s particular brand of encouragement tends to contain frequent reminders of one’s past failures. (Of course, Cas could just be projecting.)

Anyway, Cas feels bad for her — but not so much he isn’t relieved to have the attention off of him, at last.

Sam asks Cas to come over for another movie Friday night, but Cas doesn’t get the car back until the next day and none of his friends live within walking distance, so he declines, lest his parents guess the lie. Even though Hester apparently recategorized Dean as ‘not a threat,’ she still won’t like him spending one-on-one time with a boy.

He explains none of that, though, and is surprised when _both_ boys look disappointed.

“Dean’s going to make burgers,” Sam says, clearly trying to entice him, and Cas feels suitably torn.

Dean puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Don’t hassle the guy, Sammy. It’s Friday. I’m sure Cas has better things to do.”

Sam’s shoulders slump, and he looks at Cas, who in turn frowns at Dean for putting that wounded-puppy look on his brother’s face and making it be _Cas’s_ fault.

“Cas likes watching movies with us, Dean.” Sam gives Cas a sad, imploring look. “Right?”

“Of _course,_ ” Cas says, and it’s true, but even if it weren’t, he’d have to lie. Anything to make it stop.

Sam brightens, allowing Cas’s conscience to unclench in relief.

“See?” he says smugly, nudging Dean, who sighs and rubs a hand down his face.

“Fine, maybe not _better_ things,” he concedes, although he clearly doesn’t believe that, “But sometimes people already have plans, y’know? They can’t just come over on a whim.”

“Oh.” Sam, a very reasonable person, can clearly see the validity of Dean’s point, and he glances back to Cas, apologetic. “Right. Sorry, Cas. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I hope you, um, have fun, with your other plans.”

Still, he looks disappointed, and beside him, Dean coughs.

“Yeah. You probably have like, a party, or something,” he says awkwardly.

“Or something?” Cas prompts, unable to resist.

“Well, yeah, like — I mean, maybe you’re hanging out with your friends, or — or maybe you have a date, you know, whatever.”

It’s _incredibly_ difficult not to grin like a maniac at the redness creeping into Dean’s face as he works out the last part of that sentence.

“Oh. Cas has a girlfriend? Or, um, a boyfriend?” Sam asks, visibly dismayed, and Dean practically falls over.

“Sam!” he squeaks, probably unintentionally.

“What? I’m just being polite.” In fact, Sam’s unhappy face suggests the opposite, but Cas decides not to call him on it.

“No, I’m not really going on dates right now, Sam.” He winks. “But thank you for asking.”

Dean makes a cute little huffy noise, and tugs at Sam’s arm.

“Okay, yeah, well, we better get going, then. Have fun.”

“I probably won’t, since I’ll just be at home babysitting, but thank you both. And I will see you tomorrow, Dean.”

Dean stops, Sam suddenly looking suspiciously pleased next to him.

“Tomorrow?”

“Eileen’s birthday party? Unless I’m no longer invited.”

“Shit, that’s tomorrow,” Dean exclaims. “Yeah, yeah, you’re still good to go. I just — forgot, somehow, even though we’ve been talking about it all week. I — I guess I’ll see you, then. Good luck babysitting,” he adds, a small smile crossing his face, _finally,_ and Cas enjoys the hard-won victory.

“Thank you — but, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m also walking home.”

Dean blinks at him for a few seconds, and then turns bright red.

“Oh — yeah, right, of — of course.” He swallows, throat bobbing as he looks anywhere but Cas. “W-well, come on then. We don’t have all day.”

Cas walks after them, kindly suppressing his laughter.

Sam, on the other hand, doesn’t bother.

“Maybe you should call Cas and ask if _he_ can give us a ride,” Sam proposes, like it’s a totally reasonable thing, when Saturday morning brings a vicious cold snap and the original plan to bike over to the Roadhouse becomes about a thousand times less appealing.

“No way,” Dean protests, pouring milk into his bowl of cereal. “It’ll be _fine_. We’ll just — bundle up.”

“But _Dean,_ it’s twelve degrees out!”

“So? It’s not like we’re gonna die.”

Sam huffs, crossing his arms.

“The Roadhouse is a forty-minute ride, Dean. _Each way._ ”

Normally, they’d catch a ride with Charlie, but she and Eileen had slept over at Jo’s as part of the celebration.

“Okay, then maybe we should call them and see if Ellen or Bobby will come get us,” he suggests, albeit reluctantly. He doesn’t like asking them for stuff — they’re busy, and Dean feels like whatever it is, he oughta be able to handle it himself — but calling Castiel seems so awkward and lame that it’s worth it.

“Bobby’s got work, and Ellen is probably helping set up for the party,” Sam insists, exasperated. “I don’t get what the big deal is! Cas is going anyway. And then he can bring us home!”

“What if he decides to leave early?” Dean points out, and is pleased to find that his knee-jerk argument is actually valid.

“Then we can ask Ellen, since we’re gonna help clean up _anyway._ ”

“Well —" Dean wracks his brain, and then — “I can’t, Sam! I don’t have his number.”

Sam gives him an arch look, bizarrely adult on his eleven-year-old face, and then slaps a little paper booklet down on the table by Dean’s cereal.

Dean squints at it. There’s a list of names and numbers . . .

“Yes, you do,” Sam says unnecessarily. “It’s in your school directory.”

And he’s right. Halfway down the ‘N’s is _Novak, Castiel,_ seven digits printed bold and neat in the second column.

Dean sighs.

“If I don’t call him, you will, won’t you?”

Sam lifts his chin.

“I don’t want to freeze to death just because you’re being a — a _girl._ ”

“Watch it,” Dean mutters, cheeks red. “I’m not bein’ a girl, I just don’t wanna . . .”

“You don’t want Cas to think you have a big crush on him?” Sam taunts, and Dean elbows him. Or tries, anyway; Sam flits away from the blow with a nimble little shimmy.

“Shut up. I don’t. It’s just not cool to bother him.”

“You’re _friends,_ Dean. We live a street away and we’re going to the same place! It’s common _sense._ You always say _I’m_ a brat, but right now, you’re acting like a five-year-old!”

“Christ, Sammy, _fine!_ If it means that much to you, I’ll freakin’ call him!”

“Okay! Then do it!”

“Okay, I _will!_ ”

And then Sam’s thrusting the cordless phone at him, the number already punched in.

He presses CALL before Dean even has a chance to chicken out.

“Bitch,” Dean hisses, and then snaps his jaw shut as it begins ringing.

“Jerk,” Sam hisses back, but he has this huge, self-satisfied grin on his face, and if Dean weren’t holding a phone, he’d give Sam a noogie.

“Hello. Mrs. Novak speaking,” a voice suddenly says, and Dean straightens up in his chair.

“Uh, hi, Mrs. Novak. I, um, I was hoping Cas was around?”

“Castiel? I believe so, although he’s getting ready to go somewhere. I’ll let him know he has a call from . . .” she trails off. “I’m so sorry, I don’t recognize your voice. Who is this?”

“Right, sorry, I should have said. This is, um, Dean. Dean Winchester. I know Cas from school.”

The pause is so long this time, Dean worries he’s been disconnected. Finally:

“I see. Well, I’ll let him know.”

In the waiting silence, Dean puzzles over her tone. Dean doesn’t really have a reputation, good or bad, as far as he knows. Of course, Cas has described his parents as strict and religious, and it’s true that the closest things Dean’s dad has to church are the local bars. Maybe they know about that.

It feels like a long time before Cas finally picks up.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, a little gruff and tired-sounding.

“Um, hey, Cas.” For a moment, he forgets what he was going to say.

“I didn’t realize you had my number,” Cas says unexpectedly, and Dean’s heart sinks. He sounds irritated, almost, and the fact that he’s mentioning it at all suggests he didn’t _want_ Dean to have it.

Cheeks burning, he rushes to explain.

“Yeah, no, I — I didn’t, but Sammy got it from the directory since — well, it’s colder than we expected, and we were gonna bike to the party, but he remembered you were getting your car back today and — but you’re right, I — I shouldn’t have called, man. I did tell him we shouldn’t bother you—"

“Dean,” Cas interjects, and this time his tone is soft, amused. Dean swallows hard, still unsure.

“Uh, yeah?”

“It’s fine. I didn’t know you didn’t have a ride, or I would have offered. I’ll pick you both up in about fifteen minutes, alright?”

“Oh. Are — are you sure it’s not a, uh, a bother? ‘Cause you don’t have to—"

“ _Dean._ I’m sure. I’ll see you soon.”

Cas hangs up before he can keep arguing, and dazed, Dean glances over at Sam.

His brother has a giant, shit-eating grin on his face.

“See, Dean?” he chirps gleefully. “I was _totally_ right.”

Dean lets that hang in the air for a moment.

And then he lunges out of his chair and Sam bolts from the room with a squeak.

“Is . . . everything alright?”

Sam and Dean answer the door, Dean wearing a grin of vicious satisfaction and Sam out of breath and scowling.

“No. Dean sat on me for _ten minutes,_ tickling my feet, just because I made him call you.”

“I take it he didn’t want to call me.”

“Didn’t wanna bug y—"

“Yeah, ‘cause he gets all embarrassed about talking to you and it makes him dumb.”

“ _Sammy!_ ” Dean croaks, visibly horrified, but Sam’s sullenness has morphed seamlessly into vindication.

“That’s what you get for sitting on me!” he cries, and makes a beeline for the car.

Cas doesn’t bother suppressing his grin.

“Why would you be embarrassed to talk to me?” he presses, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Shut up, man. He’s just being a bitch.” He starts forward, but Cas quickly steps in front of him, and Dean jerks back with wide eyes.

“Hm. Maybe. Although, you do seem to get a little flustered when you talk to me,” he says, purposefully lowering his voice as he peers down at Dean.

Dean gapes at him.

“I — I don’t — you—" He takes a deep breath, and then squares his shoulders. “Well, I wouldn’t if you’d stop doing shit like _this_!”

“Like what?” Cas replies innocently, and Dean glares.

“You know! You — it’s like you’ve never heard of personal space! And then you — you stare at me.”

“Should I not?”

“Of course you shouldn’t!”

Cas tilts his head.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not —" Dean cuts off, pressing his lips together. “Well, why should you?”

Cas shrugs.

“You’re interesting.”

At that, Dean is finally speechless, expression twisting in a way Cas struggles to decipher. There’s surprise, there, and disbelief; he seems unhappy with Cas’s response.

And yet, there’s a strange light in his eyes, something that almost seems a little like — hope.

“Whatever,” he says abruptly, and shoves past Cas, marching stiffly toward the car.

And even though Cas follows, it’s much more slowly, his heart beating out an odd, unexpected rhythm in his chest as he goes.

But then Sam is chattering in his ear and Dean is giving him short, clipped directions, and Cas has forgotten all about it by the time they get to the party.

Cas isn’t really expecting to enjoy himself; despite taking place in a bar, the kids stay true to their promise of no drinking, and it’s never occurred to him that a party could still be fun at his age without weed or booze.

But the Roadhouse has a warm, homey atmosphere, despite being a little rough around the edges, and with the jukebox running and the lights ablaze, Cas feels the energy deep in his bones the moment he walks in.

“Dean!” Charlie cries, racing across the room to wrap him in a hug. She gives him a squeeze, then hooks an arm around Sam. “You guys made it! We were worried you were going to freeze in the wilderness!”

“Yeah,” Ash hollers from the pool table, pausing to whoop as he watches Jo sink two balls. “Now I owe Joanna ten bucks.”

“Twenty, since they showed up with Cas,” she retorts.

Charlie shoots Cas a bright smile.

“Ooh, did you drive them here?”

“Uh. Yes?”

Her smile widens to a grin.

“You’re the best, Cas,” she tells him, a cryptic note to the words, and turns back to Dean. “Well, what are you waiting for, handmaiden? Get in the kitchen!”

“ _Charlie,_ ” he groans, and she smacks his back, gleeful.

“C’mon, don’t be sore. Burgers don’t make themselves!”

“ _Fine._ ” He throws Cas an apologetic look. “I’m on kitchen duty with Benny, but you know almost everybody, so, uh, feel free to mingle, and stuff.”

“Shoo, Dean. Cas is a big boy, and we’ll take care of him.”

“If he’s a big boy, why does he need you to take care of him?” Dean asks, suspicious, and Cas is inclined to agree. Charlie just shrugs.

“Don’t worry about it.”

And with that, she pushes Dean off toward the kitchen, then sidles close to loop an arm through one of Cas’s.

Without thinking, he stays still, simply watching Dean go.

“Uh-huh,” Charlie says abruptly, and Cas swivels his head, fixing her with a questioning look. She smiles. “Don’t worry, he’s not gonna be cooking all morning. You’ll get to hang out with him.”

“Uh, I wasn’t really—" he begins, but Sam has maneuvered around Charlie and is tugging at Cas’s sleeve.

“Cas, have you ever played darts? Do you wanna play with me?”

“If he pulls his I’m-eleven-and-obviously-no-good-at-darts shtick, don’t listen to it, Cas!”

Sam frowns at her, offended.

“Cas is my friend, I wouldn’t hustle him,” he insists, and turns to Cas apologetically. “Sorry, I probably am a lot better than you.”

“You’re probably right,” Cas agrees. “I’ve never played.”

“Yeah? Well, I can teach you. Oh, or — or maybe Dean can teach you, when he’s done with the food? Dean’s _really_ good, Cas — I mean, I think I’ll be that good when I’m his age, too, but for now, he’s still a lot better than me. You, um, you should ask him to show you!”

Cas squints.

“But aren’t we going to play now?”

Sam falters.

“Oh. Well — well, I guess I could _just_ teach you the rules, and then Dean can, uh, help you with like, your technique and stuff?

Charlie is stifling giggles beside him, and it all seems very suspect.

Still, Sam is earnest, if a little shifty, and also _eleven,_ so Cas figures there’s no harm in just going along with it. Dean _is_ busy cooking, and darts sound fun.

“Sure. That sounds like an excellent plan.”

Sam beams, and eagerly guides him away.

“Huh,” Dean muses, an hour-and-a-half later, once he’s done cooking and they’ve all eaten their burgers (which, in Cas’s opinion, ought to be counted among the manmade wonders of the world). “And he’s really never played darts before?”

Sam confirms this before he has a chance.

“Yeah! He almost beat me on the last round!”

Dean is gratifyingly impressed.

“Well, look at you, Cas. Guess you’re a natural.” There’s a wistful note to the words, and oh, what Cas wouldn’t give to know what put it there.

“Thank you. Sam said when you were done with everything you could help me with my technique.” Cas pauses. “He said you were ‘ _really_ good.’”

Dean pinkens, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably.

“Oh, I mean, I guess. We’ve been playing since we could stand up straight and hold the dart, after all. But, um, you seem like you’re gettin’ the hang of it okay.”

Cas suddenly regrets his earlier efforts. Now that he considers it, simply playing a game with Dean doesn’t seem like the same opportunity as having Dean show him.

“Perhaps you can show me something more advanced, then,” he says, staring back evenly. Dean licks his lips, and Cas is the first to break eye contact, following the movement. He hopes, for Dean’s sake, that Dean really does grow into his features, because right now, his mouth looks soft and pretty and plush, and he’s bound to get teased for it.

“O-okay. I mean, there’s not really — like, it’s mostly just practice, but — yeah, I guess — alright. Uh, lemme see your throw.”

Cas accepts a dart from a mischievous-looking Sam, and tosses it at the board.

Dean hums.

“Well. I think — you know, it looks like you’ve got good aim, but you brought your shoulder up a little too high, and your elbow’s tucked in more than I think it should be. You don’t want the motion to be so stiff. Even if it works out okay while you’re playing, you’ll be sore later.”

Cas tries to adjust his arm per Dean’s instructions, and lifts a brow at him.

“Like that?”

“Kind of. Just a b—"

“Why don’t you show me?” he interrupts, blinking innocently, although amusement and anticipation dance within. This is _exactly_ what he was hoping for.

Dean stills, then bites his lip.

“Uhhh, okay, yeah. Sammy, gimme a dart—"

“No, I mean, help me figure out where _my_ arm should be.”

A beat of silence, and then -

“Right. Yeah, o-okay.”

Dean’s voice comes out hoarse, and Cas’s pulse trips a little as he slowly approaches. It’s _exciting,_ he admits. He doesn’t usually play drawn-out games like this, just finds brief, straightforward hookups that require little finesse and never linger in his mind past the night.

This little demonstration is laughably short of a hookup, won’t even lead to so much as a kiss tonight, but a wonderful thrill courses through him when Dean grasps his arm and starts moving it into position.

“So just, try to keep your shoulder down,” he says, applying slight pressure to Cas’s shoulder with his other hand, palm warm through Cas’s t-shirt, “and let your elbow line up more naturally — yeah, like that — but relax—"

And after a little more tweaking, Dean’s hands slide off him and he gives a short nod.

“’Kay. Try that.”

It is with some difficulty that Cas manages to tear his eyes away from Dean, but when he throws the dart, it hits the board an inch from the center.

Sam throws both hands up with a _whoop,_ and Dean breaks into a huge grin.

“Hell yeah!” he cheers, reaching out to squeeze Cas’s shoulder, and Cas can’t help grinning back. There’s an unfamiliar warmth running through him, and he’s not sure where it’s coming from, exactly, if it’s the hum of voices and laughter in this bright, happy room, or if it’s the pleasure at discovering and honing a new skill, or if it’s the way Dean’s eyes shine with pride at that same accomplishment — but in the end, it doesn’t really matter. He’s here, and he feels it, and he can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

Cas grabs Dean’s arm as he’s getting out of the car later, a troubled thought dampening his strangely good mood.

“Uh, Dean,” he says, and Dean looks like a deer in the headlights before, for some reason, he glances to Sam in the backseat and abruptly relaxes.

“Yeah, Cas, what’s up?”

“I . . . I’m glad you called to ask for a ride, but—" Cas hesitates, not sure how to explain. “It’s just, my parents don’t like it when I use the phone, especially for social time. They’re . . . old-fashioned, that way.”

“Oh. So . . . it’s bad to call?”

“Yeah. I mean, you can, if it’s important, like today, but—"

Dean holds up a hand, smile rueful.

“Say no more, Cas. I get that. We don’t wanna get you in trouble.”

Cas smiles back, relieved.

“Thank you.”

They watch each other for another moment, and then Dean drops his gaze — right to where Cas’s hand is still on his arm.

Behind them, Sam makes a funny noise.

“Bless you,” Dean mutters, and Cas reluctantly withdraws his hand.

“Well, I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” he offers, and Dean nods, still not looking at him.

“Yeah, see you, Cas. Thanks again for the ride.”

“Yeah, Cas, thank you!” Sam claps him on the shoulder as he slides across the seat to the door. “Although, Dean should probably thank me, too, since it was my id—"

“Go inside, bitch,” Dean grumbles, and Sam sticks out his tongue.

“Jerk!”

But he goes inside, Dean smiling fondly after him.

“Stupid brat,” he sighs.

“You clearly don’t mean that, you know.”

“I know. He knows it, too.”

“That’s alright. It means you’re a good brother,” Cas points out, and Dean tilts his head.

“You think so?”

“I know so,” Cas says, with utter confidence, earning one of those shy little half-smiles for his trouble.

“Yeah, well, maybe sometimes. See you later, Cas.”

“I look forward to it.”

Cas watches Dean walk up to the front door, where he turns to wave before going inside, and finally drives home, fully intending to savor his good mood for as long as possible.

Sadly, his hopes are dashed as soon as he walks through the door and finds his mother waiting.

“Hello, Castiel. Did you have a nice time?” Her demeanor seems pleasant enough, but the cheer doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Uh. Yes. It was a lot of fun.”

“Oh? What did you all do?”

“Uh . . . we played games, and ate burgers, and some people danced. There was cake. You know, typical party activities.”

“It sounds very nice.” She pauses. “You went with Dean Winchester?”

And no, Cas really doesn’t like where this is going.

“He’s friends with the girl whose birthday it was.”

“Oh. But — why did he call you?”

“He knew I was going, and it was too cold for him and his little brother to ride their bikes, so he was hoping he could catch a ride with me.”

“I see. That was very nice of you.”

Cas shrugs.

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

She hesitates, seeming to choose her next words very carefully.

“I suppose — you’re getting to know each other more, now? Since you have — mutual friends.”

“I guess?”

With pursed lips, Hester nods.

“He — he sounded different.”

“What?”

“Dean; he didn’t sound like how I expected.”

“I have no idea what that means, Mom.”

She sighs.

“You know — I merely thought, since he played football, and the way you talked about him — but he sounded . . .”

 _Like a nerd,_ Cas thinks, because even when Dean’s being tough and sarcastic, he still sounds kind of dorky. The fluctuating pitch of adolescence will do that.

Hester doesn’t finish her sentence, and Cas wonders if he’s allowed to leave the room yet.

“How old is he?” she asks abruptly, and Cas barely resists rolling his eyes.

“I didn’t ask.” Although he knows; Sam said Dean would turn sixteen in January. The 24 th , to be specific.

Cas wonders if he’ll be invited to that birthday party, too, and frowns at the thought, with all its shadowy implications.

“You must know what grade he’s in.”

“He’s a sophomore, Mom.”

“Oh. That’s — young.”

She seems deeply troubled by this, but Cas really doesn’t have the patience to work it out with her.

“Well, good talk. I think I’m going to go take a nap, if that’s okay. Jimmy wants me to watch Claire tonight since he has finals next week.”

“Fine,” she says distractedly, and waves him away without even remembering to lecture him about his own studies.

 _Whatever_ , he thinks. He told Dean not to call, and he won’t be stupid enough to get his car taken away again; his mother can worry all she wants for today, but after she hasn’t seen or heard about Dean for a while, she’ll be fine.

Cas’s nap, though he didn’t quite get eight hours last night, is unexpectedly fitful.

Gabe narrowly declares the birthday party and Dean calling him for a ride a point in his column, but despite eating lunch with Dean most days and driving him and Sam home after school, the next week comes in short. Apparently, these things are not progress from previous weeks, and also take residence in the vague parameters of the ‘friend zone,’ whatever that is.

Anyway, John is absent once again on Friday night, leaving Cas able to join the brothers for dinner and _The Prisoner of Azkaban_ , but no irregular points of contact occur, and Cas’s hundred dollars are thus forfeit.

“Are you putting any effort in at _all_?” Bela scolds him, understandably irate at having to listen to Crowley’s smug monologue about their impending loss.

“ _Obviously_ . I spend more time with Dean than I do with all of _you._ It’s just — it’s very difficult to make progress under the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” she presses. “He _clearly_ likes you; I’m surprised he hasn’t permanently turned red at this point! What’s bloody stopping you?”

Cas sighs.

“It’s not really ‘like,’ Bela.”

“Excuse me? What _else_ has a person blushing left and right and tripping over themselves like an absolute ninny?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” he insists. “Dean and his friends are somewhat in awe of me, therefore he’s nervous. And I am also something of a novelty, which is understandably interesting. Not to mention _,_ finding someone attractive is uncomfortable, hence some of his reactions — which, I admit, are wonderfully entertaining — but it doesn’t always translate to _like_. There are clearly issues with his father; I’m not even allowed over if Mr. Winchester is home, and I’m pretty sure he’s not aware I’ve ever been there. In theory, Dean may _kind of_ like me, but in practice, I think there needs to be more behind the feeling for him to risk it.”

Bela makes a face.

“God, but you take all the fun out of this.” She taps her foot impatiently. “So — you need to give him more incentive, then.”

“There’s only so much I can do at lunchtime and with his eleven-year-old brother sitting on the other end of the couch.”

“You took him to that diner, before. Take him on another date.”

Cas did think of that, and tried to get Dean to hang out after school; unfortunately, John expects him home most nights, and Sam relies on Dean for dinner.

“His schedule typically doesn’t allow it.”

“Well, what about phone calls? Can’t you do some of that nauseating no-you-hang-up-first before bedtime?”

“My mother doesn’t like that I have a new friend that’s a boy. You should have seen her when Dean called the house that one time. And they’ll know if I start using the cell.”

“This is absolute _rubbish._ ”

“I agree wholeheartedly.”

In light of that, Cas shouldn’t be surprised when Bela shows up the next day and promptly hands him a box.

He stares at it, a picture of skinny silver flip phone on the front, the words above declaring it the _Motorola Razr._

“What is this?”

“Your new cell phone.”

“My — what?”

“You said you couldn’t call Dean, ergo, your seduction is tragically hindered, _ergo,_ I’ve bought you a phone. You’re welcome.”

Cas frowns, and pushes the box back.

“I can’t accept this.”

“I insist, Castiel.”

“I don’t need your—"

“Oh, come off it. It’s not _charity._ It’s an investment, Cas . After all, you do realize I can’t win if this doesn’t happen before we graduate? Even if _you’re_ willing to drive down on weekends to continue your molasses romance with Dean, it won’t do anything for _me_.”

“It’ll happen before you graduate,” he mumbles defensively, eyeing the phone. He feels deeply conflicted; on the one hand, it’s way too expensive to accept, even if Bela’s richer than God. On the other hand, he believes her when she says it’s just so he can win the bet for her. It’s not like she’s ever tried to buy him such a thing before.

She nudges the box closer.

“Then make it happen, Castiel,” she says sharply, and-

He supposes he might as well.

Cas waits for Dean after school again, but with considerable impatience this time; once he’d accustomed himself to the idea of the phone, he found himself rather _excited_ to tell Dean about it.

Sam notices his restless fidgeting when he comes out from Math club.

“Did something happen?” he asks, unabashedly curious. “You’re acting a little funny.”

“Yes, actually.” There’s no harm in telling him, Cas assumes. In fact, Sam might like to have the number, just in case. In case of _what,_ Cas couldn’t be sure, but — one never knew. “I — I have a cell phone now.”

Sam’s eyes light up.

“Really? That’s awesome! Can I see?”

Cas spent his free period reading the manual and playing with it, and he’s embarrassingly pleased to be able to show Sam all the little features he discovered.

Sam watches with big eyes as Cas points out the most interesting things.

“Woah — it’s so _cool_!” he marvels, and Cas hands it over to him.

“There’s even a couple of games on it,” he tells him, a little excitedly. Sam nods, hair flopping into his face as he fiddles with the arrows to navigate.

“Wait, what’s this? Oh! _Wow,_ does this one do internet?”

Cas nods. He hadn’t anticipated being able to use the feature, but Bela had said she’d added it to her unlimited service plan; Cas doesn’t even want to know what she’s paying for both phones.

“It’s a pain in the ass to navigate, and it’s much slower than on a computer, but in a pinch, you can look things up.”

“That’s so _awesome,_ ” Sam breathes, wistful. “Dean’s just does texts and calls, and he’s not even allowed to text since Dad didn’t wanna pay extra.”

“Oh.” That’s disappointing; Cas is painfully slow at texting, not having much occasion to do it, but he would have liked to be able to surreptitiously send Dean messages every now and then without anyone being able to overhear, or waiting for Dean to be available to talk.

Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, looking up at Cas with that particularly potent brand of earnestness he has.

“But don’t worry, he’s allowed to do calls, so you guys can still talk. Well — I mean, as long as Dad’s not around.”

Cas isn’t sure which is more unsettling; that Sam automatically assumed that was his concern, or that it actually was.

Of course, that’s the whole point of the phone, isn’t it? So he can make faster progress getting Dean to fall in love with him.

“That’s good,” he tells Sam with a small smile, and Sam smirks down at the phone like he knows a really good secret.

That’s how Dean finds them about ten minutes later, Cas peering over Sam’s shoulder while he plays one of the two games on the teeny, tiny screen.

“Whatcha got there, Sammy?” he asks, crouching between them to look.

Cas turns, ready to explain, since Sam is trying to focus on moving the bar at the bottom of the screen so the ball doesn’t fall into the abyss, but when he does, Dean is _right there,_ and somehow, he’s not expecting it.

They both freeze, noses about two inches apart.

“Uh,” Cas says, and Dean starts coloring beneath the abundance of freckles.

It takes Cas a moment to collect himself, which is ridiculous, because this is nothing. If anything, he should be using the moment to tease Dean.

“I have a phone now,” he says, nonetheless unable to summon any kind of flirtatious remark as Dean quickly scoots back.

A second later, Cas’s words sink in, and he lights up.

“Wait, like — a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re allowed to use it?”

And since Cas’s parents aren’t going to know about it -

“Yes.”

“So I could call you?” And then Dean catches himself, looking down. “You know, if it was like the other week, and um. You know.”

“Or,” Cas says, nudging him with his shoulder, unable to hold back his grin. “You could just call me. Any time.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, and though it’s obvious he’s desperately trying for casual, his voice comes out soft and shy.

“Yeah,” Cas parrots. “Of course, only if I can call you.”

“Oh — uh, of course. If you wanna.”

Cas almost rolls his eyes. It’s the entire reason he _has_ a phone, but he can’t exactly tell Dean that.

“I do. When Sam’s done playing, you can put your number in.”

“Okay. Here’s mine,” Dean says, rummaging in his bag for a slightly battered Nokia. “Sorry, it’s not as cool as yours.”

“That’s okay. Just as long as I can call you on it, right?”

Dean bites his lip, then nods, the tips of his ears scarlet, and next to them, Sam coughs.

“Here,” he says, handing the phone to Dean, and then mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like ‘I’ve been done for like, three minutes.’

That business taken care of, they grin stupidly at each other for another moment before Dean’s face lights up.

“Oh, hey — actually, Sam and I wanted to ask you—"

Sam jumps up and interrupts him.

“Yeah, that’s right! We’re gonna go see _Goblet of Fire_ this weekend!” he exclaims, bouncing a little. “You’ll come with us, right? Charlie and Jo and everybody are going, too, even though they all already saw it when it came out.”

Cas didn’t know it was in theaters, since television and movies weren’t strongly approved activities at his house, but he definitely wants to see it.

“I’d like that,” he says, and Sam cheers.

“Cool! What’s your favorite movie snack?” he asks.

“Uh. I don’t know? I don’t often go to the theater, and when I do, I don’t get snacks.”

Sam nods.

“Yeah, they’re expensive. But Uncle Bobby usually gives Jo extra money so Dean and I can buy some candy, so we’ll share with you! I like Twizzlers, and Dean likes milk duds. You like those, right?” Beside him, Dean’s cringing a little, probably because of the awkwardness of the topic. Cas pretends not to notice.

“Yes, I think so.” Cas also doesn’t live in a candy-household, but Gabriel often shares. “But I can buy something — and then we could share that, as well.”

Normally, he wouldn’t have money for that, but it only seems fair that some of Crowley’s money should be put toward the venture that earned it, right?

“Awesome,” Sam agrees enthusiastically, and looks to Dean for agreement.

Dean still looks a little embarrassed, but he’s smiling.

“Yeah. Should be a lot of fun.”

And even though it’s a little childish and uncool-

A part of Cas wishes the weekend were here now.


	5. Part I: it hurts to be eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: discussions of Harry Potter (ships, Lily and James, my timeline may be off, sorry if it is and this actually doesn’t make sense, it’s been a long time), homophobia and A+ parenting (details in the notes), Cas refers to religious quotes as ‘nonsense’ but beliefs are individual and even if that’s what it is to him, no disrespect is intended by that, non-specific reference to Bela's backstory, but the implication is that it fits with canon, underage drinking, recreational drug use (marijuana), reference to past Cas/Lilith (single instance of making out), threatening sexual advances (including an attempt to block someone’s exit, details in the notes), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> I meant to have this up earlier, but some things came up this evening, so I apologize. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you’re all taking care ♡

> _Take me on a ride_
> 
> _So I don’t, I don’t feel invisible_
> 
> _Anywhere tonight_
> 
> _So I don’t, I don’t fade away_
> 
> _Need to feel alive_
> 
> _‘Cause I’m lost and I wanna be invincible_
> 
> _Take me on a ride, ride, ride . . ._
> 
> _\- 18, Echosmith_

The movie is long, and in spite of the various concession stand indulgences throughout, they all elect to go to Missouri’s Diner afterward to order real food while they discuss it.

Anyway, the conversation eventually devolves to one about something Charlie calls ‘ships,’ and while Cas isn’t strongly invested in the topic, he watches in morbid fascination as the group full-on _argues_ about it. Jo thinks Ron and Harry are both total morons, and Hermione should hold out for something better; Charlie, Sam and Dean are firmly in the Harry/Hermione camp, while Benny and Eileen apparently don’t care but would like to see Ron get eaten by s omething in the Forbidden Forest . Garth, in his easy, good-natured way, says he doesn’t mind Ron, the funny guy, then announces he’s always thought there was one mighty fierce spark between Harry and _Draco_ , because ‘opposites sure do attract, after all.’

There’s a lengthy silence, and then things go pretty downhill after that, because — as Charlie says — “Screw sparks, Malfoy’s a _dick!_ ”

Cas, simply trying to defuse the situation, points out that Ron and Hermione appear to be endgame, and nearly gets ejected from the table.

Which is just unfair; he didn’t say he _supported_ it.

Still, despite all this bizarrely intense discord, everyone parts on good terms, and Cas drives Sam and Dean home as planned.

They’re quiet, the first few minutes, and then:

“Jeez, Cas, I can’t believe you ship Hermione and _Ron._ ”

“I didn’t say _that_ , _”_ he counters defensively. “I just don’t see the point in arguing about it when it won’t influence the outcome.”

“Only a Hermione/Ron shipper would say that,” Dean sneers, and Cas glowers at him as best he can while driving.

“What about Lily and James?” Sam asks quickly, as if worried where this is headed.

“What about ‘em?” Dean asks. “Clearly they ended up together. I’m pretty sure I don’t need to have _that_ talk with you.”

“Don’t be gross, Dean. And I’m asking what _Cas_ thinks of it. My friend Jess likes to read fanfiction for that pairing.”

Cas has heard of fanfiction, but never felt a strong compulsion to explore, especially since he’s only allowed to use the computer for schoolwork.

“Why? We all already knows how it ends,” Dean points out, unimpressed.

“Yeah, but — that’s not the point, is it? It’s about how it happens. And nobody totally knows that story.”

Dean and Cas both fall quiet.

“Uh. Well, it’s difficult to say,” Cas eventually offers. “It seemed like a standard, um, two-attractive-people-with-tension, opposites-attract kind of thing. Your typical romcom type of couple.”

“Yeah, but I was thinking about how in the books, Lily didn’t like him at _all_ at first . And I know that’s how a lot of romances go, but _why_? It doesn’t really make sense to totally change your mind about someone you wouldn’t give the time of day to before.”

Dean turns to frown at Sam, but says nothing.

“The books also have other characters describe James as a great man,” Cas spoints out. “Even if he may not have seemed very impressive on the surface, one assumes Lily was persuaded to get to know him and discovered whatever admirable qualities inspired such loyalty in others.”

“That’s true, I guess. But he sounded kinda like a jerk. And he and his friends broke all the rules.”

Dean snorts.

“Harry and his friends break all the rules.”

“Yeah, so they can _save the world,_ not just ‘cause they’re bored.” Dean purses his lips at that, and Sam shrugs. “I’m just saying. Romances like that are weird.”

Cas sighs.

“Unfortunately, Sam, that’s not unrealistic.”

Dean and Sam both look at him, and he shrugs.

“Sometimes, in real life, people love other people that don’t really deserve it. Or even that make them unhappy. There’s not a lot of rhyme or reason to it. Perfectly sensible, good people make stupid decisions when it comes to love, and there _is_ no explanation.”

Sam pulls a face.

“That’s horrible.”

Cas just nods — he’s certainly not going to argue with that — and they’re all quiet for a minute.

“Like in _Crime & Punishment,_” Dean says suddenly, and Cas looks at him, surprised; Dean never did say how he liked the book, although Cas thinks he can guess. “That chick waited for him while he was in prison, even though he was a crazy murderer.”

“Well, she thought she’d seen the good in him, and that was apparently enough for her.”

“What he did was unforgivable!”

“He didn’t do it to her, though,” Cas points out, and Dean sighs, obviously dissatisfied, but resigned.

“I think it’s bullshit, but — I guess it’s like what you said, huh? Love doesn’t make any goddamn sense.”

“I don’t think I _ever_ wanna be in love,” Sam interjects, brow furrowed, and Dean and Cas both laugh.

Their amusement is short-lived, however. Cas has just pulled to a stop by their mailbox when Sam gasps.

“Uh, Dean,” he starts, and Dean glances out the window — and then goes stiff.

“Shit!” he swears, scrambling for the seatbelt. “I thought — Sammy, hurry up, before he comes out—"

Sam quickly fumbles free of his own seatbelt, and Dean flings the car door open, literally leaping out of the vehicle while Cas watches, stunned by the sudden, frantic energy.

“Thanks for comin’ out with us, Cas, I — I’ll call you, okay? But you should hurry and go.”

“Okay.” Cas watches as they very carefully shut the doors and dart across the lawn, Dean turning back halfway to urgently wave him off.

He shakes himself, then puts the car in drive, pulling away just as the door to the Winchester household swings open.

Well, Cas supposes. At least he’s not the only one.

Of course, he doesn’t even realize how true those words are.

The hurried getaway is more amusing than anything, and Cas’s parents are out at dinner when he gets home, so it’s just Rachel there, waiting to make sure he comes home on time. She doesn’t ask him as many questions as his mother usually does, but some of them are perhaps a little more incriminating.

“There are leftovers in the fridge for you,” she informs him, and he shakes his head.

“That’s okay. We ended up going to Missouri’s, so I think I’ll just go to bed.”

Rachel arches a brow.

“You didn’t tell Mom and Dad that. Where did you get the money?”

Cas shrugs, uneasy.

“Savings.”

“Uh-huh. Who was ‘we,’ again?”

“The usual people.”

“You guys don’t usually go to the theater.”

“Well, everybody likes Harry Potter.”

She makes a face.

“I don’t.”

“Fine, everyone except _you._ ”

Rachel turns back to her textbook with a huff.

“Whatever. Weren’t you going to bed or something?”

“I was _trying_ to,” Cas mutters, and hurries up the stairs. Rachel is an unbelievable killjoy, but after he angrily disrobes and tugs on his pajamas, his secret cell phone starts vibrating on the desk and all the anger bleeds out of him.

He hurries to pick it up, offering a quiet ‘hello’ into the receiver.

“Hey, Cas. Sorry about earlier.”

Dean is speaking softly, too, and Cas pictures him huddled up in his room, being careful not to catch his father’s attention.

“It’s alright, Dean. One second.”

Cas slips into bed, pulling the covers over his head to help muffle his voice, and then adjusts the phone next to his ear.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was just going to bed.”

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bug you—"

“No, no, I just meant — my sister is being difficult, so I’m hiding under the covers, just in case.”

Dean chuckles on the other end of the phone.

“Same. Well, not about the sister, obviously, but — I’ve got like, three blankets over my head.”

Cas grins.

“Be sure to ventilate occasionally.”

“Hey, you, too.”

They’re quiet a moment, and Cas can’t help but enjoy knowing Dean is a couple streets over, tucked up under all his blankets, lit by the dim glow of the phone, soft breaths audible through the line.

“I’m sorry I brought up Hermione/Ron,” he finally says, and is gratified by another laugh.

“Yeah, maybe I’ll have forgiven you tomorrow.”

“I don’t really think they belong together,” he tries, and Dean snorts.

“Good, ‘cause they don’t.” He pauses. “Although — I didn’t mean to compare Lily and James to _Crime & Punishment._”

“Well, I don’t care one way or the other, but I _will_ point out that they’re slightly different genres.”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, though it lacks heat. “But Sam’s girlfriend might be onto somethin’. I kinda like the mystery of Lily and James. Y’know what I think?”

“Hm?” It’s surreal, Cas thinks distantly, that he’s lying in bed, talking on an insanely expensive cell phone he’s not supposed to have, to _Dean,_ about ships in Harry Potter.

“I think Sam got it a little backwards. Just ‘cause someone said she didn’t like him at first — I don’t believe that. I think she did. I think that’s _why_ she didn’t like him. ‘Cause she did, but she could tell he was bad news.”

“What makes you say that?”

Dean’s quiet for a long time.

“Dunno. Just a hunch.”

“Hm,” is all Cas says, nonchalant, though his heart has changed its beat inside his chest, picking up the pace, just a little. “Well, how do you think he won her over, anyway?”

“Uh.” Dean hesitates, and there’s a shuffling noise, like he’s shifting around. “I — I guess, since she probably couldn’t help but like him, all he had to do was prove he meant it. You know. That he wasn’t just — playing a game. That he really liked _her.”_

It takes Cas a moment to respond.

“That’s . . . an interesting theory,” he finally says, strangely breathless.

Dean huffs.

“Not really, Cas. I mean, it’s classic romance. And I could be way off-base.”

“You could be. But things are classic for a reason.”

“Maybe,” Dean whispers. “I guess we’ll see.”

And somehow, Cas gets the feeling Dean isn’t talking about the final book.

He doesn’t get to dwell on it for long, though, because Dean abruptly changes the topic to some kind of fan convention Charlie gets to go to in the Spring, and Cas laments the fact that he’s never once been out of the state. Not long after that, he hears the garage door run, and reluctantly, whispers his goodnight to Dean.

Cas comes downstairs the next morning to find his parents in the kitchen, waiting for him.

There’s a plate of breakfast, still steaming, that appears to be for him, but none of his siblings are around, and it is with great trepidation that he approaches the table.

“Castiel,” his father greets him. “Have a seat.”

He carefully arranges himself in the chair, gaze darting to his mother, who turns off the stove without looking up and comes to join them.

He just barely stops himself from asking, _Am I in trouble?_

Hester laces her palms together, and with a nod from Cas’s dad, finally looks at him.

“I called your friends’ houses last night,” she tells him, and cold dread settles in Cas’s stomach.

He says nothing.

“I was surprised to hear that you weren’t at any of them.”

Crowley and Bela would have lied for him, but they have servants take their calls, and Gabe’s mom must have picked up at his place.

“We went to Missouri’s,” he tries, hoping his mother didn’t browbeat anyone into confirming that all of his friends were, in fact, _home._

“I did, however, still have the number you gave me when you went to play games at that girl’s house,” she continues, as if he hadn’t spoken. “And she told me that yes, her daughter was planning to go to theater to see Harry Potter that night.”

“A startling coincidence,” Cas mumbles, and his father fixes him with a hard stare.

“You do not _lie_ under my roof, Castiel.”

_Except when I’m sleeping,_ he almost says, but that sharp, tingling sensation is spreading through his body and he knows this is serious, that he’ll regret making it worse.

“You went to see Harry Potter with Dean Winchester,” his mother says shortly.

“Not _just_ Dean,” Cas protests. “Obviously there were other people with us.”

She shakes her head.

“And you _lied_ about it. _Obviously,_ there’s a reason for that.”

Cas has his fists clenched so tightly beneath the table, he wouldn’t be surprised to find bloody half-moons forming on his palms.

“Yes — because _every_ time I mention Dean, you get angry!”

“I do not. All I do is try to understand what sort of friendships you’re forming. Or in this case—"

“In this case _what_?” he snaps, and his father stands.

“If you interrupt your mother one more time, you’re grounded, no car, for two weeks, in addition to your punishment for lying. I will not tolerate disrespect.”

Cas wants to _scream._

“Fine,” he says stiffly. “I’m sorry, Mom. Continue.”

She takes a deep breath.

“You didn’t tell me the girl was Charlotte Bradbury.”

With a huff, he slumps in his chair, restless and desperate to chase away the fury and anxiety swarming beneath his skin.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I know you think you’re different like that, as well, and that it doesn’t matter, but I cannot support surrounding yourself with people who help add to your confusion.”

It takes Cas a second to understand, and it’s like the bottom of his stomach drops out.

“You — you have a problem with Charlie being gay.”

His parents sigh in unison, unjust tiredness in their faces.

“We’re not going to have this conversation again,” his father says.

“What conversation are we having, then?”

“John Winchester may not be perfect, but his parents are good people, and he’s understandably struggled without a wife. That said, he’s done his best to raise his children right. Of course, Dean is young, and very susceptible to outside influences.”

Cas really isn’t convinced of that, but his parents aren’t done.

“Castiel,” Hester says seriously. “Did you approach Dean first?”

He stares back at her, taken aback by the question and at a loss as to its relevance.

His parents just stare back, watching him carefully, as if ready to catch him in a lie — and finally, he gets it.

“You — you think I’m—" he pauses. “You think I’m — corrupting him, or something.”

“We didn’t say that. We just want to know how this got started, so we can fix it.”

Cas shakes his head, something bitter and nauseous rising in him.

“No. No, your _solution_ is going to be the same, no matter what. All you want to know is if it’s my fault, if — if I’m a lost cause. How much I need to be _punished,_ ” he spits. “I don’t _believe_ this. I make a new friend — because that’s what he _is,_ whatever perverse, convoluted ideas you have about it, and you practically jump down my throat over it, just because I’m—" He pauses, shaking from adrenaline, and his father opens his mouth to speak, eyes narrowed.

“You’re overreacting, Castiel, and we’re entirely within our rights—"

“No!” he shouts, standing. “It’s not fair! You treat me like a — like some kind of _criminal,_ just because I don’t care about what body someone’s born in! Even if I _was_ dating Dean, this is just ridiculous! How is it that Jimmy knocks up his girlfriend when they’re fifteen-fucking-years-old—" his mother gasps “-and then has to get married before he’s even graduated high school, and you don’t treat him any different, going on about love and family and forgiveness — but I want to date a boy and suddenly it’s the end of the world? It’s a fucking double standard, is what it is, and you’re both goddamn _hypocrites_!”

There’s a storm brewing in his father’s face, and Cas wouldn’t be surprised if today is the first time his dad hits him.

He doesn’t stick around to find out.

John’s car isn’t in the driveway when Cas reaches Dean’s house, simultaneously out of breath from sprinting and shivering from doing so sans jacket, and it’s almost enough to make Cas believe there really is a God.

He doesn’t know what he’d have done if John had been home; he doesn’t even know why he’s running to Dean’s house. Maybe because it’s the closest place there is, or maybe it’s because his other friends wouldn’t understand.

Whatever the reason, all Cas can manage to do is be grateful John is gone and hope that _Dean_ is nonetheless at home.

He jogs up the walkway and presses the doorbell twice, in rapid succession. He knows it’s obnoxious and probably unnecessary, but he feels like his whole being is about to shake apart from this awful pressure within, and he doesn’t want to risk Dean ignoring the bell.

He waits a beat, then two, and then the door swings open.

“What, Sammy, did you forget your — Cas?” Dean blinks up at him, and then his surprise morphs to concern. “Dude, you look — are you okay?”

And suddenly Cas’s throat feels thick, and his eyes sting, and it feels like too _much_ to even force words out, so he just shakes his head and pushes past Dean into the house.

A few seconds later, he hears the door close behind him. He folds his arms over his chest, just to have something to hang onto.

“Did — did something happen?”

“I — yes, I—" Cas tries, and his vision blurs with the words. He drags a sleeve across his eyes, and starts again. “My — my parents, they—"

How does he explain? It’s so stupid, it’s so _cliché —_ but the hurt and the anger are no less real and terrible, and he just wants it to _stop._

Dean comes to stand beside him, close, but careful not to touch, and a part of Cas wishes he would.

He doesn’t say anything, though, just stands there and waits for Cas to get the words out.

“It’s stupid,” he mumbles, shaking his head.

“Probably not,” Dean ventures cautiously.

“It’s not the first time, even, that we’ve fought about this.” Cas tries to clear his throat, but it’s like everything’s sticking, and he wills himself not to cry.

“About . . .?”

“My — about me being—" Dean frowns, and then comprehension flashes across his face.

“Oh.”

“They just — can’t accept it. And they found out I was with —" _with you,_ he almost says, but he doesn’t want to drag Dean down with him, make him feel personally judged and condemned, isn’t even sure he can make himself tell Dean that his parents think he’s trying to take advantage and turn Dean _gay —_ “Charlie. My mother called around, and she still had the number from the other night. And — apparently , they’re _concerned_ I’m just finding ways to support my delusions.”

Dean’s face goes hard.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he growls, but there’s defeat in his eyes, and Cas knows he knows that’s standard fare, that Dean keeps his secrets in fear of having it all said to him, too.

“No,” Cas says shortly, and _damn it,_ his eyes are wet and his vision’s unclear, and he’s afraid he might actually end up letting the tears fall.

Dean just looks at him, and then he sets his jaw, as if he’s come to a decision.

“Listen — I’m gonna — but — this never leaves this room, okay?”

“What?” Cas asks, confused, but then Dean is closing the distance, tugging Cas into those wiry arms of his and carefully tucking his head on Cas’s shoulder. He’s a little tense, even as one hand tentatively begins to rub Cas’s back, and Cas is so shocked he just stands there, arms limp, as it happens.

But only for a moment, because even as his mind is trying to catch up, his body suddenly relaxes, as if relieved, and he finds himself wrapping his own arms around Dean and holding on for dear life.

And this — _this_ is why he came here. This is what he wanted, what he needed, and suddenly, he realizes he can’t remember the last time somebody hugged him. Except for Anna, when she comes home from and then leaves for college, nobody in his family has hugged him since before he came out.

Before her parents died, all those years ago, Bela would sometimes sneak over and into his room to curl up next to him, crying into his shoulder while he patted her back, although she never once talked about why. Jimmy would always get anxious, from his twin bed across the way, and threaten to tell their parents, and then Cas would have to quote random nonsense about Christ’s love and the like to get him to shut up and go to sleep. Bela stopped, after the accident, and they haven’t discussed it since, though Cas sometimes wonders.

But when did somebody hold _him_? Comfort him, in this way? He doesn’t remember, and the thought provokes an embarrassing wave of tears he can’t quite hold back. Dean’s face is somewhere in the vicinity of his neck, and Cas hopes he doesn’t notice.

Still, he can’t suppress the small sniffle that escapes him.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he whispers, the words shaky and barely audible, even to him. Dean stiffens, and for a moment, Cas is terrified he’s going to pull away, even though Cas needs this right now, because he isn’t even sure _he_ believes that.

But instead, Dean just squeezes him tighter.

“God, no, Cas,” he says, voice rough and right next to Cas’s ear. “Not a damn thing wrong with you. Anybody who thinks there is can fuck off, ‘cause you don’t need ‘em. You’re perfect the way you are.”

If this was any other time, Cas might have teased Dean about that.

But it’s not, and Cas is inexplicably, immeasurably grateful for the words; and instead of speaking, he cries silently into his friend’s shoulder, clinging tight for as long as Dean will let him.

Cas thinks about it all weekend.

He’s very grounded, when he returns home, but he feels so wrung-out and exhausted that he can’t acknowledge the furious lecture with any more than a nod. The moment he’s excused, he retreats to his room and crawls into bed.

Once he’s there, though, he doesn’t give his parents another thought. Instead, it’s all _Dean,_ Dean’s arms around him, Dean’s desperately needed reassurance, Dean, Dean, Dean.

The moment he finally left Dean’s house, Dean squeezing his arm and telling him to call if he needed anything before shutting the door, Cas was already wishing he was back inside and being held.

The feeling follows him, persistent and demanding, like a craving.

Cas has thought about touching people before, the kind of thoughts you sometimes have to take with you to your personal shower time, but this is different. These are not thoughts that make Cas’s body heat with interest; they are thoughts that warm it against the pervasive cold that has set in, a hopeless chill that leaves him dreading his tomorrows.

It’s like it’s all he can think about.

Cas huddles in his bed that night and wishes Dean were there, just holding onto him; he comes down to breakfast the next morning, and when his Dad looks at him, then sighs and shakes his head, Cas wishes he were wrapped up tight somewhere safer. And when nobody says a word to him, all day, until he once again retreats to his room, he positively _longs_ for it.

So when Monday comes, he hauls himself out of bed, bright and early, and goes to school without even bothering to fix himself coffee. He waits by Dean’s locker for much longer than he probably needs to, but he didn’t sleep well and he doesn’t really know what to do with himself, and he thinks this is as good a way as any to pass the time.

But when Dean finally shows up, his startled gaze fixes on Cas for barely a second before it suddenly flits away again, and Cas feels abruptly, crushingly alone.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean says, and for once, Cas has no idea what to do with himself.

“Hello,” he manages.

And then Dean sort of shuffles closer, clapping a hand over Cas’s shoulder, and Cas realizes Dean’s face is red, though he still isn’t looking at him.

“How you doin’?” he asks, and finally, meets Cas’s eyes.

And what Cas sees there makes the alone feeling rush right back out.

He doesn’t think too hard about it, just grabs Dean’s hand and pulls him forward. He stumbles along until they reach the nearest classroom, empty and dark within, and though Dean makes a questioning noise, he lets Cas drag him inside.

Cas feels selfish and guilty for it, but the instant the door is shut, he draws Dean close, wrapping around him like he’s wanted all weekend.

“Thank you for Friday,” he says, like it’s his excuse for this, and he supposes it is, a little bit.

At that, Dean relaxes, hugging him back, and Cas tries not to melt into it, tries not to be obvious about how much relief it provides.

“Yeah, Cas. Any time.”

Cas hopes, ashamed and reckless, that Dean means that, because when he thinks that it could be years before somebody ever does this for him again, he’s not sure he can find it in himself to let go.

Dean, truth be told, is very proud of himself for not dissolving into a puddle of goo during The Hugging Incident.

It helped, that Cas was so distraught; Dean didn’t really have much brain space to think about himself and what he was doing, or saying, or what any of it might mean, in the grand scheme of things. It was mostly instinct; seeing Cas like that was one of the worst things he’s ever experienced, and it’s like everything in Dean pretty much abandoned all other tasks to go insistently yell at him to _fix it._

Of course, afterward, once Cas had left and Dean had settled down, all the intensity of the moment retreating and his continued worry fading to a nagging ache-

He _completely_ freaked out.

Because Dean had — had _held_ the guy — and not just any guy, but _Castiel Novak —_ and told him he was _perfect the way he was._

Which, while totally true, is also really freaking embarrassing for Dean, because while Cas didn’t make a big deal out of it at the time (on account of being busy feeling like shit because his parents were terrible people who apparently couldn’t be bothered to properly love their own son), he’s bound to remember it later. At which point he’ll think, _huh, that was kinda weird._

It’s too late to take it back, however — and honestly, Dean wouldn’t, even if he could. Cas deserved to hear that, and Dean was happy to tell him, because while he might be Castiel Novak and Dean might kind of still have an uncomfortably huge crush on him, he has also, somehow, become one of Dean’s best and dearest friends over the past month, and that’s what you do for friends. You’re _there_ for them.

And for the first time, Dean thinks Cas might feel that way about Dean, too, that he really does consider Dean a friend, because when he was upset, he came to _Dean_.

And _fine,_ Dean was, geographically, his nearest acquaintance at the time, but _still._ That wasn’t Cas being mad, or kind of upset. That was Cas in full crisis, breaking down completely, and even if Dean was just the most convenient option, Cas still trusted him with that.

That counts for something, Dean is sure, and he can’t help but feel kind of good about it.

Still, he’s expecting Cas to pretend like it didn’t happen, or maybe even avoid Dean. If it had been Dean, going to Cas like that — hell, even if he’d gone to Charlie or one of his other friends like that — he would probably need a little bit of time before he could face them. It didn’t really mean anything bad, it was just — one of those things. It’s hard, to let people see you that vulnerable, and Dean can respect that; he’s prepared to do the macho, casual thing when Cas is ready to face him, to let him know it’s no big deal and it doesn’t change the way Dean sees him, either.

(It does, but not in a bad way.)

But of course Cas has to break the mold, like he always does, and Dean about has a heart attack when he sees Cas waiting by his locker Monday morning. In no way, shape or form had Dean prepared for _that._

So he tries to adhere to Bro Code, to play it off for Cas’s sake, at the same time he double-checks to make sure Cas is doing okay, and Cas surprises him yet again by pulling him into an empty classroom and hugging him tightly.

He says ‘thank you,’ unexpected and deeply gratifying, and even though they part ways after that, Dean finds himself thinking about it, all day long.

He thinks and thinks and thinks, and finally — he reaches a conclusion.

Cas doesn’t get enough affection.

And that should be obvious — and it is, as soon as you think about it, given his family’s views and the fact that his friends are basically snakes, so far as Dean can tell — but even if Dean had figured it out last week, he wouldn’t have thought it was up to _him_ to do anything about it.

After this morning, though, Dean suspects he’s the _only_ one who might actually bother doing anything, and Cas — well, he thinks a part of Cas might want him to.

So, yeah.

Maybe it _is_ up to Dean to do something about it.

The thought is embarrassing as hell; coming up with strategies to achieve this purpose is also embarrassing as hell; executing said strategies is so far beyond embarrassing as hell that it might as well _be_ hell, but Dean is determined to try, and try he does.

When Cas joins them for lunch that day, Dean doesn’t tense up and try to maintain some laughable illusion of personal space; he presses right back against Cas, and when he gives him half his tuna sandwich, because Cas rarely has any lunch, he doesn’t bother trying not let their fingers touch.

Cas doesn’t seem to notice, but Dean’s getting better at this, at reading the guy, and he’s pretty sure he does.

After school, when he comes up to meet Cas and Sammy, he lets his hand rest on Cas’s shoulder, casual-like but hopefully reassuring; Cas doesn’t shrug him off, doesn’t even pause as he finishes his sentence, and then easily turns to greet him.

So Dean does it all the next day, and the next.

And when Friday gets there and Cas calls his mom with a clever excuse about having to finish an assignment in the computer lab so he can watch _The Princess Bride_ with Sam and Dean, Dean only hesitates for a few minutes before he puts an arm around Cas, applying the barest of pressure so Cas will lean into him.

Cas does, and even though part of Dean still thinks it’s embarrassing and unmanly, most of him is just fascinated at how even though Cas is bigger than him, at times like this, he seems smaller, somehow, and it gives Dean this weird, ridiculous desire to just wrap him up and _protect_ him.

At the end of the movie, when it’s time to pull away, neither of them do; and finally, Cas looks at Dean, eyes full of questions.

Dean just shrugs, and doesn’t answer any of them, but he thinks, maybe, that Cas gets it.

“Dear _God,_ why am I here?” Cas groans, glaring after the person that just knocked into him on their way to the booze. All around them, there are sweaty, loud bodies, crashing together in time with the music, and he’s not even sure if Bela can hear him.

“Because we hardly see you anymore, you don’t have enough fun, and you’re _finally_ ungrounded!”

Two months ago, Cas still wouldn’t have called some random person’s house party _fun,_ exactly, but he would have been happy to go, if only to get out of the house and hang out with his friends. Or, you know, hook up with a willing partner, should he find one.

Tonight, though, even though things at home are terrible and tense, despite settling down since the blowup a couple of weeks ago, he kind of wishes he were somewhere else.

He feels bad about it; these are his friends, and he _has_ been inattentive lately. It’s just uncomfortable, trying to put a funny spin on his stories about Dean and Dean’s friends. He finally confessed to their sofa cuddles, the other day, and every word of the tale felt bitter in his mouth as he joked about Dean putting his arm around him with ‘that sophomore smoothness.’

All his friends had laughed, Gabe exaggeratedly reenacting it with Crowley, who’d deadpanned ‘I’ll give Winchester that; he’s still bigger than _you,_ Gabriel _._ ’

It’s not their fault Cas feels so weird about it; it’s not their fault Cas is fragile and pathetic sometimes, and Dean seems to be able to sense this and help hold him up without ever making a big deal about it.

So Cas came out tonight, and at Bela’s insistence, he drinks and dances and plays beer pong with Gabe, who is so good at random party games it’s both embarrassing and impressive, and does his best to have a good time.

Crowley shares his weed with him, which is kind of nice, since it takes the edge off, but eventually, Cas still needs to find some quiet and clear his head, so he excuses himself to wander upstairs and find an empty room to sit in.

In an amazing stroke of luck, a couple of people are staggering out of a bedroom just as he starts down the hall, and he slips in after they’re gone, shutting the door behind him and giving the bed a cursory inspection before flopping down on it.

He drifts for a while, the raucous sounds of the party muted, and slowly feels himself return to equilibrium.

And then the bed dips and a body presses up against him, the interruption and contact abrupt and undesired.

“I thought I saw you sneak off somewhere,” a voice drawls, low and sweet, and Cas opens his eyes with a frown.

“Lilith,” he mutters, and she grins wide, brushing her hair out of her face before rolling over to straddle him, and _nope,_ Cas is not and never will be drunk enough to be okay with this.

Lilith is Captain of the cheerleading squad, undeniably pretty, despite her eerie features, and if he didn’t know any better, he might have been down for a slow, lazy makeout session, although he’s not up — _ha —_ for anything more than that tonight.

But Cas _does_ know better; back in freshman year, Lilith cornered him at a party, and they’d made out for a bit. Cas was young and had very low standards, but Lilith spent the entire time whispering things in his ear that were so much more disturbing than sexy, and Cas has been dodging her advances ever since.

Tonight, of course, is no exception, and he quickly shoves her off.

“No, thank you,” he says, and her fingers wrap around his arm like claws.

“Oh, come now, Castiel,” she murmurs, soft and sinister. “You can’t tell me you came up here to be _alone._ ”

“I did,” he counters bluntly. “My apologies; it was a lack of foresight on my part not to lock the door.”

She pouts.

“You always play so hard to get.”

_And you always play so_ _hard to get rid of_ _._

Cas shakes her off and makes for the door, but Lilith follows, darting around him to stand in front of it.

“Castiel,” she purrs, and the sound of his name in that tone of voice makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Please move,” he requests politely, and she just smiles.

“You and I can get up to all kinds of bad things together, if you stick around.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I’d rather you did,” she shoots back, gaze unwavering, and that does it. He might have to go out the window.

He’s not sure who’s more surprised when he actually does it, letting himself out onto the roof and carefully shimmying down a trellis. He thinks Lilith probably is, not being privy to the initial thought, but she shouldn’t be.

Honestly, Cas is mostly surprised that she doesn’t get that response more often.

“. . . so you know how he like, hasn’t even been at parties? Well, he showed up last night!”

Dean’s not sure what makes him pick the words out of the jumble of conversations happening throughout the hallway, loud and excited for Winter Break to start, but he does, and whatever it is also has him sidling closer to the group of girls, straining his ears for the continuation.

“Save it, I already heard from Cheryl that he hooked up with Lilith.”

“What? Damn. Well, how much did she tell you?”

“Uh, just that it happened? It’s not like she was in the room _with_ them.”

“ _Obviously._ But did she tell you how _long_ they were up there? Lilith didn’t come down for an hour, and nobody even saw Castiel leave.”

And — oh.

Dean suddenly feels really, really shitty.

“I’m surprised. He held out for a while, considering she’s head cheerleader. And she’s been flirting with him for _years_.”

“Mm, you never know. Maybe this isn’t the first time.”

Dean doesn’t bother sticking around after that.

The thing is, he’s not stupid. No matter how many times his friends tried to tell him Cas was interested in him, Dean always argued the opposite. Because yeah, okay, for some reason, Cas is his friend now. Maybe Sam was right, and Dean just looked like a happy, fun person to someone who was struggling to be those things themselves. But never once did Dean actually believe Cas _liked_ him.

Which is why it’s so strange to feel so — so _crushed,_ at the reminder that Cas is also Casanovak, Attender of Parties and Participant of Hookups.

There’s no reason for his friendship with Dean to influence that part of his life; a steady stream of friendly touches, meant to comfort, to show affection, are not in any way a replacement for the other kind of touches, the kind girls and boys like Lilith spend years trying to get Cas to accept from them.

And yet — and _yet-_

Dean halfway bumps into somebody, and only then realizes he doesn’t even know where he’s heading, has simply started walking.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, but when a hand touches his arm, he looks up.

“Hey, Dean. Don’t worry about it,” Lisa Braeden reassures him, smile kind. “Everybody’s rowdy today, since break starts tomorrow.”

“Yeah, they really are,” he agrees, forcing himself back to the present. Lisa’s a popular junior on the cheer squad — Dean tries not to wonder if she and Cas have ever . . . — and normally not the kind of person who would be aware of Dean’s existence, let alone acknowledge it; but Dean happened to be riding his bike down the road her car broke down on, last summer, and of course he stopped to try and help her out. He was able to get it running, and Lisa, a genuinely nice person, has always made sure to smile and say hello to him ever since.

Lisa is also a genuinely _gorgeous_ person, so Dean usually responds with a bunch of awkward stammering, blushing the whole time, about which his friends tease him without mercy. You would have to be blind or very exclusively into men not to have at least a small crush on a girl that beautiful, especially one who manages to give you the time of day without it seeming at all like pity.

Dean’s doing better today, but he still finds himself turning a little red as she looks back at him, brown eyes curious.

“So, uh, are you going anywhere for Christmas?” he asks, because it seems like the thing to do. She beams.

“Yeah, my family’s going skiing in Aspen. What about you?”

Dean _wishes._ He shakes his head.

“Nah, we’re just gonna stick around here, do dinner with my Uncle Bobby’s family.”

“Uncle Bobby . . . do you mean Mr. Singer? You’re really good friends with his step-daughter — Jo, right?”

Dean melts a little, briefly forgetting his turmoil, because he directed her to Bobby’s shop after he got her car running that one time and it’s kind of amazing that she pays so much attention to people, even though there’s not really any point for her.

“Yeah, Jo. She’s like my sister.”

“That’s really cool. I don’t have any family except my parents,” she adds, wistful. “Must be nice.”

“It is,” he agrees, suddenly feeling bad for her; he’d hate it if it was just him and his dad.

“Well, I better get back to my friends,” she says, and Dean nods. “It was nice talking to you, Dean. Have a good break!”

“Yeah, you too, Lisa,” he tells her, and she slips away through the crowd with a final wave. Normally, Dean would bask in the afterglow of her presence, but it’s like the whole encounter departs along with the girl, because he’s suddenly stuck on those chicks’ conversation from before, and he feels like crap all over again. He stands there in the hall, knowing he should probably get his stuff out of his locker and go find Sammy since there are no after-school activities today, but his limbs feel heavy and uncertain, and his thoughts are scattered and busy.

He doesn’t even notice Cas until he’s actually saying something, arm resting against Dean’s as the bustle of students move around them.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean startles out of his stupor, finding Cas’s gaze and holding it for a second.

“Oh, uh — hey, Cas.”

Cas studies him for a moment.

“Are you going to go meet Sam?”

“Yeah, I was just on my way,” Dean says, and makes himself take a step forward. Cas follows, and they slowly make their way down the hall.

“Who was your friend?” Cas asks abruptly, and Dean glances back at him.

“Uh, that’s Lisa Braeden. She’s not . . . my friend, exactly. I fixed her car once, so she says hi to me now. She’s really cool like that.”

“I see,” Cas says from somewhere behind him, and if Dean didn’t know any better, he’d say he was frowning.

They make it outside, where there’s a little more space to move.

“I gotta walk over to the middle school, if you wanna wait here,” Dean says. He takes it as a given, now, that Cas will drive them.

Cas shakes his head.

“I don’t mind.”

So they set off, side-by-side and quiet in a way they usually aren’t, a little distant, a little tense.

Dean’s not sure what Cas is preoccupied with, but his head is still spinning with thoughts of Cas and Lilith, of Cas and _any_ of the people he sees like that. He’s trying to talk himself out of the nasty feeling that has settled deep in his gut, but even with all the obvious arguments, it’s hard.

It shouldn’t bother him, he tells himself, because he was never even in the running. And even if he was, Cas doesn’t do _relationships._ So while Dean has no choice but to admit, based on the sheer volume of fantasies he catches himself having, that he’s really attracted to Cas — he also doesn’t think he could handle a one-off.

He determined that his crush on Cas was destined to be a non-issue a month ago, and nothing has changed since, so _why . . ._?

Round and round his thoughts go, until he can’t help himself.

He nudges Cas’s shoulder with his own, trying to be cool about it.

“So. Lilith’s smokin’. Nice job,” he adds, hoping it doesn’t sound weird. Congratulating someone on a hookup is not something he’s ever actually done.

But Cas just gives him a puzzled look.

“Lilith?”

Dean feels a little sick.

“Jesus, Cas, how many people do you hook up with to forget their names that fast?” he jokes, kind of dying inside, but Cas still looks blank. “That senior’s party on the weekend?”

Immediately, Cas pulls a face.

“Oh, no, Dean. No, there was no hooking up at that party, and certainly not with Lilith. I _did_ make out with her once a few years ago, and have regretted calling myself to her attention ever since.” He shudders, distaste apparent, as Dean tries to process the feeling of intense relief washing over him. “She’s _terrifying_ _._ ”

Dean is unbearably pleased, and also so, so screwed.

Cas squints at him, and then a little smirk pulls at his mouth.

“Why?” he asks. “Were you jealous?”

And Dean stares back, the denial ready on his lips, but while his poker face is great if he’s _actually_ playing poker, it’s pretty much shit everywhere else.

“I mean, a little,” he says, and Cas’s smirks falls away. “She’s cheer captain, you know. Girls like that’d never give me the time of day.”

Cas’s eyes narrow.

“They’d better not.”

“What?”

Cas looks away.

“She is, as I said, crazy,” he answers calmly. “I wouldn’t wish that on you.”

Weirdly disappointed, Dean shrugs.

“Yeah, well, the point is moot, ain’t it?”

“I suppose so,” Cas agrees, and though they walk the rest of the way in silence, it’s a different kind this time, and Dean doesn’t mind it.

There’s something about Lisa Braeden that Cas just doesn’t like.

It could be how white her teeth are; Cas has always been particularly sensitive to people with unnaturally white teeth, and has never understood why.

It could also be that he’s familiar with several of her friends — he assumes the group of girls she came over to after talking to Dean are her friends — and he generally finds them to be obnoxious.

It could even be that she’s nice and normal and well-adjusted, and her parents are pretty well-off, and everybody likes her, and Cas sometimes wishes he could have a life like that.

Of course, it could also be that she smiles at Dean like he’s a real person, and while Cas absolutely believes Dean deserves the same treatment from everyone, most people just ignore him. The fact that Lisa doesn’t means that she gets happy, friendly smiles back.

And _apparently_ , when she smiles at him and he smiles at her, Dean blushes.

So maybe _that’s_ what Cas really doesn’t like.

It doesn’t help that Lisa’s friends tease her when she joins them, oblivious to Cas listening a couple feet away at his locker.

“Gee, Lis, your type sure has changed.”

“Oh, be quiet.”

“Seriously, if you keep saying hi to him, he’s gonna start following you around.”

Lisa rolls her eyes, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

“Don’t be mean, okay? Dean’s really nice.”

“Sure, for a total nerd.”

But Lisa just gets a mischievous smile on her face.

“You say that now, but just wait. I bet he’ll be a total hottie in a couple years, and you’ll be eating your words.” She says it like a joke, and her friends laugh, but Cas can tell she kind of believes it.

Cas kind of believes it, too, and even though it’s completely irrational to feel this way, he resents that someone besides him has reached this conclusion.

And it really _is_ irrational, because Cas isn’t even going to be here in a couple years, and while he reflexively shies away from the thought every time he even starts to think about the culmination of this bet, he still knows that soon enough, things concerning Dean will have to be irrelevant to him.

Still — in the interests of winning that bet, he convinces himself — he asks Dean about her.

And it’s not like Dean gushes about her beauty or confides a terrible crush, but Cas remembers how he acted when asked about Pamela and the way he behaves with Jo and the others, and he knows what Dean looked like, when he was talking to Lisa, and he’s perfectly capable of putting two and two together.

Dean harbors no real hopes where Lisa’s concerned — but he definitely _likes_ her.

It puts Cas in an unreasonably foul mood, which briefly lifts when it looks like Dean might be jealous, only to go crashing back down because _apparently,_ Dean just wants attention from hot cheerleaders.

Which, okay, that’s totally normal for a nearly sixteen-year old who is at all interested in girls, but _still._

But then Dean just shrugs off the topic, like maybe he really _doesn’t_ care that much, and Cas cheers up, just a little, and by the time they reach Dean’s house and settle in for a movie, Cas having already told his parents he’d be going to Bela’s, he’s pretty much back to normal.

And Dean putting his arm around Cas and leaning in close has nothing to do with it, he’s sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** SPOILERS **
> 
> Homophobia/A+ Parenting: After calling around and figuring out that Cas lied about who he went to the movies with, Cas’s parents confront him, expressing concern that he’s using Charlie to affirm his delusions about his sexuality and also that he is corrupting Dean in the same fashion. 
> 
> Threatening sexual advances: Cas goes to lie down at a party; Lilith enters the room and effectively propositions him. Cas declines, but Lilith ignores his clearly stated rejection, and even stands in front of the door in an effort to prevent him from leaving. Cas exits through the window and climbs down the trellis; it is worth noting that while Cas finds her incredibly off-putting, he does not experience any serious distress or fear for his safety, so much as profound irritation. That said, this behavior is not acceptable and is suggestive of potential for escalation, and it would have been a very reasonable response to feel frightened or unsafe in some way, so please be advised.


	6. Part I: can you feel it building up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: more of that ‘being a girl’ nonsense, references to past Dean/Cassie (week-long middle-school relationship), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and for all your lovely feedback ♡ as always, I hope you’re all well, and please enjoy!

> _Something happens when we touch_
> 
> _Now the floor’s on the ceiling_
> 
> _It’s a love rush_
> 
> _Veins are glowing like neon_
> 
> _Something happens when we touch_
> 
> _Yeah, it’s a love rush . . ._
> 
> _\- Love Rush, Rachael Cantu_

To Dean’s disappointment, he doesn’t get to see Cas over Winter Break. Two days after school lets out, the Novaks pile into two cars and drive to Wichita to spend the break with Cas’s grandparents.

He does give Cas his Christmas present before he leaves, though; ever since he got the idea, Dean has vacillated between deciding it’s _way_ too lame to get him a gift at all and just — really wanting to let Cas know that this, their friendship, isn’t nothing to Dean. Because of this, he’s too chicken to give it to him when he leaves Friday night.

(Maybe the fact that that’s when Cas tells him he’s going to be away for over two weeks, an eternity fraught with terrible potential, has something to do with it, too.)

Still, after fretting himself to sleep, Dean wakes early and throws on some warm clothes to wait on the porch, just in case Cas comes running by.

He does, and if that’s not a sign, Dean’s not sure what is.

“What are you doing up on a Saturday?” Cas asks, trotting up the drive and keeping his voice low. His ratty old sweatpants look a couple sizes too big, and Dean suspects a drawstring bears the burden of keeping them up beneath his equally-big-but-terribly-mismatched sweatshirt. Damp curlicues of hair stick to his forehead in places, but in spite of it all, Cas looks as handsome as ever.

“I, uh, forgot to give you this last night,” Dean says, pulling the haphazardly wrapped little rectangle out of his jacket pocket. “Sorry, I suck at wrapping stuff.”

Cas tilts his head at it, a frown slowly working its way across his face.

“That’s — a Christmas gift? For me?”

“Yeah. I mean, if you want it. You don’t have to,” Dean assures him, cheeks red from more than just the cold. He’s cursing his stupid, girly impulses, because they’ve been friends for what — a couple months? And they’re practically grown men. (Well, Cas is, anyway.) This was clearly a dumb idea — especially if Cas’s confused, vaguely unhappy face is anything to go by.

“I want it,” Cas says quickly, and holds out his hand, expression almost — petulant.

“O-okay. S’yours, then.” Dean drops it into his waiting palm and takes a step back, a little desperate to go back into the house and get away from the awkwardness of the moment.

Cas hesitates.

“I didn’t get you anything.”

Dean didn’t expect him to, and he says as much.

“It’s not a big deal, man. It’s just something I thought of. You might not even like it.”

“Can I open it now?” Cas asks, and it’s clear that he wants to; at the same time Dean is terrified of his reaction or lack thereof to the gift, he can’t really bring himself to say no.

“Uh, if you want.”

Cas smiles and comes to sit down next to him, carefully inspecting the seam of the wrapping. Dean feels weird standing up, looming, and drops down beside him, barely containing a flinch as the outsides of their thighs press together.

They’ve got like, a dozen layers of clothing between them, practically, and it just shouldn’t be a big deal.

Despite the cold, by the time Cas frees the little black tape from the paper, Dean has started to sweat

Cas blinks, squinting down at the handwritten label Dean had painstakingly filled out.

_Dean’s Top 13 Zepp Traxx._

“It’s a mixtape?” he asks, staring at it.

“Yeah.” Dean has no idea how to interpret Cas’s reaction, and it’s taking years off his life.

Cas turns to him, finally, and with a completely straight face, asks:

“How do I play it?”

Dean gapes.

“What? It’s — you — obviously you—"

And then he sees it, that little glimmer in Cas’s eyes that says he’s being a _shithead._

“Oh, screw you,” Dean grumbles, elbowing him as he starts laughing.

“Sorry, but — really, Dean? You’re aware it’s 2005, right?”

Dean reaches for the tape, blushing furiously.

“Yeah, I just — if you don’t want it, that’s _fine—"_

“I didn’t say that,” Cas insists, twisting away to guard the tape in careful palms.

“You don’t have to keep it,” Dean assures him tiredly. “I figured it’d be hit-or-miss, anyway.”

Still holding the tape out of reach, Cas meets his gaze, steady.

“I want to. It’s mine, now,” he adds. “I’m keeping it.”

Dean’s heart does a funny little flip in his chest, and after a weighty moment, he retreats, hunching into his jacket.

“Well, okay, then.”

They’re quiet a minute.

“Led Zeppelin, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm. You know, my parents don’t let me listen to rock and roll,” Cas points out, as if Dean hasn’t seen him in all his sexy, faded band shirts.

“Like you’re not a complete rebel, Cas,” he retorts, rolling his eyes, and then smirks. “Or is that just the excuse you use to listen to _ABBA_?”

Cas doesn’t blush, not quite, but he looks distinctly uncomfortable.

“I told you, that’s my sister’s.”

“Uh-huh. Anyway, I know for a fact that your car _only_ has a casette player, so you can stow your modern-times bullshit.”

Next to him, Cas smiles, turning the tape over in his hands.

“I haven’t heard much of Zepp,” he muses, and Dean suspected that; that’s definitely not one of the t-shirts Cas owns — not that Dean keeps _very_ careful track. “And these are your favorite?”

“All-time,” Dean confirms, and that smile just grows.

“Okay. I won’t get to drive for a couple weeks,” he says, and Dean deflates a little at the reminder that Cas is going away. “But I’ll see if my older sister knows where her Walkman ended up. My parents will be none the wiser.”

“Like I said, rebel,” Dean jokes, but the idea that Cas might secretly listen to Dean’s mixtape over the next couple weeks cheers him considerably.

“Speaking of rebellion — I should go. I think everyone is still asleep, but you never know.”

Dean sighs.

“Yeah. My dad got in late, so he should be out for a few more hours, but—"

He doesn’t even want to _think_ about how John would react if he opened the door to find Dean and Cas sitting on the steps, so close their shoulders and legs touch — and Cas holding a _mixtape_ Dean made for him.

Of course, the mixtape really is just a mixtape — it doesn’t have some weird theme that’s meant to be a hidden message, and it sure as hell isn’t a love confession — but . . . well, his Dad might not read it that way.

Cas gets to his feet with a sigh, stretching briefly.

“Well, I suppose I’ll see you after break,” he says, and Dean stands as well, trying to quell his doubts. They’re friends, and they should still be friends, even if Cas spends two weeks in Wichita. It’s not like Dean’s some insecure girl, afraid her new boyfriend’ll change his mind. What’s there for Cas to change his mind _about_ , right? There’s no pressure, here.

Still. Dean worries, and when he glances up at Cas and sees him looking back, strangely forlorn, he can’t stop himself from pulling him into a quick hug.

It’s no big deal; Cas needs more hugs anyway, right? And Dean already decided he’d have to be the one to give them to him. It’s not weird, or clingy.

Judging back the way Cas hugs him back — even when Dean’s all set to let go and offer up a manly back-slap — Cas must not think so, either.

The drive isn’t that long, but it feels like it, and by the time Cas has participated in the obligatory catch-up dinner with his grandparents, it feels like he’s been awake for three days.

It doesn’t stop him from sneaking off the air mattress he’s sharing with Samandriel and locking himself in the bathroom to fiddle with his phone, trying to decide whether or not it’s too soon to call Dean.

Anna dug her Walkman out of the attic for him before they left, and Cas listened to the mixtape on repeat for most of the trip, although a few times his mother made him take his headphones off to play I Spy and provide a lackluster accompaniment to the sing-alongs.

He’d never quite been able to get into Led Zeppelin before, and maybe there’s some Stockholm Syndrome going on, given the circumstances, but he’s inclined to think the mix is _perfect._

Cas kind of wants to tell Dean as much.

But — it seems a little . . . soon, to be calling Dean. Saturday morning on his porch may feel like forever ago, and Cas may be desperate to complain about the car trip and the nosy, overly-enthusiastic way his grandparents spoke to him at dinner, but is that really a good enough reason to pick up the phone less than forty-eight hours after they spoke?

He’s fairly certain it’s not.

Of course . . . he doesn’t want to be _inattentive_ , over the next two weeks. There will be no animated lunch conversations, or driving Dean home after practice, or halfway-cuddling on his sofa Friday nights. Cas has invested a _lot_ in getting and keeping Dean’s interest, in fostering attachment. Teenagers are fickle, he knows, and while it didn’t _seem_ like Dean had that much else going on, anything is possible. What if he loses ground over the next two weeks, just because Dean gets distracted with other things and Cas isn’t there to remind him of his interest?

They’re already moving at a snail’s pace; Cas can’t really afford a setback like that, he reasons. And Bela’s liable to put one of her stiletto heels right through his instep if he fucks this up for her — or worse, she might pretend to be perfectly reasonable and understanding straight up until the minute he suddenly finds himself locked in a closet with Lilith.

He shudders at the thought, immediately flipping open the phone-

Right as it lights up and starts buzzing in his hand.

He quickly hits the button with the little green phone on it.

“Hello, Dean,” he whispers, unaccountably pleased.

“Hey, Cas. Did you make it there in one piece?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Uh-huh. What about everyone else?”

Cas rolls his eyes.

“I would never harm my family, regardless of how annoying they are.”

“Never say never,” he shoots back cheerfully. “Seriously, how bad was it?”

With a sigh, Cas tells him, and Dean listens. He becomes audibly flustered when Cas declares the mixtape a godsend of musical perfection, quickly changing the subject to what horrors await Cas tomorrow, but Cas knows he’s happy about it, and it’s why Cas can’t help grinning through the rest of the conversation, even though he’s going to have to play in an ice hockey match with all of his siblings wearing the horrible coat he finally told Dean about but refused to let him see.

He doesn’t stop grinning, not until well after the call is over and Samandriel is drooling an impressive puddle by his shoulder, and at long last, he falls asleep.

Break passes quickly, and most of Dean’s fears are assuaged within the first several days, because he and Cas talk almost every night.

He spends a lot of time doing practice drills with John in the yard, but he also sees a lot of the friends who are still in town; then he has a really fun Christmas and New Year with the Harvelle-Singers, during which Bobby and John only wind up in a yelling match twice, and although he’s not really excited to get back to the academic grind, he’s feeling pretty good about going back to school.

And, you know. Seeing Cas again. That might be just a small part of it.

It’s stupid, and he knows Cas’s family didn’t get back till late the night before the first day back, but Dean nonetheless showers and changes in record time after morning practice, just in case — well, just in case Cas missed him a little bit, too, and decides to do something crazy like wait for Dean by his locker because he wants to see Dean as badly as Dean wants to see him.

Yeah, so — maybe Dean’s stupid crush got a little worse over break.

Of course, it doesn’t help that the flyaway fantasy comes _true;_ Dean rounds the corner, the hallway lit more by the florescent lights than the rising sun outside, and there Cas is.

It’s normal, right? It’s totally normal to hug somebody you won’t see for a while, and is thus equally normal to hug that same somebody after said while has passed. Isn’t it?

It better be, because while Dean manages _not_ to break into a run and throw himself into Cas’s arms, he’s sure it’s still obvious how eager, how _compulsive_ the move actually is.

But that’s the nice thing about hugging Cas; every time Dean does it and Cas doesn’t hesitate to hug back, it gets easier.

They don’t say anything cheesy about how much they missed each other; they don’t say anything at all. But they do hang on for a few seconds longer than is appropriate, utterly oblivious to the few students scattered throughout the hall.

And then Cas asks if Dean wants to go to the cafeteria and watch the sun come up before class, and the glow Dean feels inside his chest seems so immense he hardly sees the point in watching the sun at all.

“Alright, Castiel,” Bela starts, straight to business, and Cas definitely doesn’t cast a longing glance toward Dean’s lunch table. “I allow that there were some physical limitations over break, but you had better have put that phone to good use.”

“I did,” he admits, somewhat grudgingly. “We spoke almost every night.”

“Is he in love with you yet?” Gabe asks, and Crowley sniffs.

“That’s irrelevant. Has he _told_ you he’s in love with you yet?”

Cas sighs.

“We’re not that far.”

“Of course not,” he drawls, eyes full of contempt. “What are we even still doing here? It’s been two months, Castiel. A man might suspect you were deliberately dragging your heels.”

“I’m not. It’s a delicate situation.” And it is. If Cas had made a move a month ago, there wasn’t a chance in hell Dean would have bought it, of that he’s sure.

As for now . . . he doesn’t know.

He suspects, sometimes, based on the soft way Dean will look at him, or all the little touches that seem to bridge the gap between them, that Dean is interested in that, in more than just an abstract sense.

But Cas has also come to learn that Dean is an unexpectedly tender person with those he’s close to, and he knows Dean has come to count him among that group; all of it, then, could just be Dean’s way of taking care of him.

“I lose if I’m rejected outright, don’t I? So no, Crowley; I’m a man who’s playing to win.”

“Hm. And are you? Winning? Do you have _anything_ to show besides a few friendly phone calls?”

Cas rolls his eyes.

“I do, actually. Dean made me a mixtape.”

There’s a surprised silence; Bela and Gabe look impressed.

“Like — an honest-to-God _mixtape_? A meaningfully-cultivated cassette?”

“Yes,” Cas says, even though he knows they’re imagining some poorly disguised pattern of angsty love songs; still, a mix of Dean’s favorite songs by his favorite band is certainly not _not_ meaningful, and at the end of the day, it’s a _mixtape._ If Cas didn’t know any better, he’d assume it was as good as a love confession, too.

Gabe whistles.

“Pay up, Crowley.”

Crowley affects something vaguely resembling a pout.

“I want to hear the mix.”

“I lost it,” Cas lies promptly, and receives a disgusted look in return.

“Aren’t you worried that’ll come back to bite you?”

“Probably not, and if it does, I’ll just say I left it at my grandparents’ house.”

“I suppose it won’t matter in the long run,” Bela agrees.

“I suppose not,” Crowley echoes, giving Cas a speculative look. “Very well. You’ll get your money in Calculus.”

Cas just shrugs and, as has become his habit, determinedly avoids thinking about it.

Dean is disappointed when Cas doesn’t join them for lunch, but only for about five minutes, because Eileen suddenly stiffens — and then drops a pretty major bomb.

“Dean. I think those girls are talking about you,” she says, staring across the way.

Without an ounce of discretion, everybody turns to look. A blonde girl in the group at the table two behind them sees them looking, and quickly averts her gaze, though she and her friends don’t stop talking.

“What — what are they saying?”

Eileen’s not looking at him, too busy tracking the conversation, but his question gets answered anyway.

“Did you hug Cas in the hallway this morning?” she asks.

He nods, hoping she’ll catch it in her peripheral.

“They seem pretty upset about it.” True to form, Eileen sounds unimpressed.

But she keeps watching, and Dean waits for her to continue.

Abruptly, her face tightens.

“Well, we should ignore them,” she decides, and turns her gaze to her lunch.

“What?” he asks, and when she doesn’t answer, Charlie nudges her.

“Eileen — what’d they say?”

Eileen frowns.

“Nothing nice. It’s not important.”

That gives Charlie pause, but Dean leans forward, determined.

“I don’t care. Tell me. What are they sayin’ about me?”

She hesitates, distinctly unhappy, but Eileen has always been one to respect people’s wishes.

“They’re not sure why he’s with you.” She shrugs. “Stupid people.”

Charlie gasps in outrage, and Jo asks if she should go over and give them a ‘talking to,’ an offer he numbly turns down.

Because Dean — Dean feels a little crushed.

It’s dumb, since Eileen’s right; they’re just a bunch of stupid kids, and they don’t understand anything. Hell, Dean doesn’t even know if they meant Cas _hanging out_ with him, or if they think Cas is _with_ him.

But either way, the perspective comes uncomfortably close to doubts he himself has, every now and then, and hearing that other people also wonder, _why Dean?_ is just — not a great feeling.

Benny drapes an arm across his shoulder.

“Alright there, cher?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “It’s fine. They don’t know anything, and anyway, s’none of their business.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” he agrees, giving Dean a squeeze before taking his arm back to eat his sandwich.

But Charlie is giving him this sad, big-eyed _look,_ and Jo is scowling at the other table in such a way that Dean wouldn’t be surprised to turn around and find they’d all run off, and even Garth appears tuned in and solemn on his behalf.

“Really, guys, don’t worry about it,” he assures them. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Okay, but—" Charlie starts. “You know they’re wrong, right? Cas really likes you.”

Dean sighs.

“Exactly. Cas and I are buddies, and I’m sure they’ll get over it. And if they don’t — well, whatever.”

She frowns at him like that’s not actually what she meant, but Benny comes to his rescue and asks how her Princess Leia costume’s coming along, and thankfully, they move on.

Except Dean, of course. Nah, Dean thinks about it all through lunch, all through Bio, and all through the rest of the day.

“Hey, um — Cas.”

It’s a surprise when he drops Dean off and Dean doesn’t get out of the car right away, although perhaps it shouldn’t be. Dean’s been quiet since he came back from practice, and he spent the drive over shifting restlessly in his seat, seeming not to hear half the conversation.

“Yes?”

“Do you, uh, wanna come in?”

The offer is unexpected, mostly because it’s unprecedented; it’s not Friday, and Dean has never invited him into the house on any of the other days. Cas isn’t sure if that’s because of John’s schedule, or because of Dean’s own weekday obligations, but he’s never pressed the issue.

“Is that okay? Won’t your father be home soon?”

Dean shakes his head, fiddling with his coat sleeve.

“His friend’s got some kind of intense do-it-yourself project he needs a second set of hands for, so he said he wouldn’t be back till late.”

“Oh.” Cas thinks about it, and decides his parents won’t find it _too_ terribly suspicious if he wants to hang out with his friends today, since he didn’t see them over break. “Sure. I’ll let my Mom know I’m going to the mall with Gabe.”

Dean smiles a little at that.

“Sounds like a plan. I guess I’ll just — be inside, then.”

“See you in a minute.”

Dean hops out, and Cas kills the engine and gets out his sanctioned cell to call his mother.

His estimations were correct, to his relief. She agrees readily, because of _course_ Cas wants to catch up with his friends; he must have missed them all very much.

And okay, maybe he did, a little, and maybe, if Dean hadn’t offered, Cas would think about making plans with them — but then, maybe that would have been more about getting out of the house than because any of them had anything in particular they wanted to say to each other.

At any rate, he heads to the door and lets himself in, perfectly content to be here instead.

Dean looks up as he enters, but then his gaze skitters away, and Cas wonders if something’s wrong. He studies him for a long moment, waiting for Dean to look back at him, or to speak, but Dean continues to eye the floor, a tiny frown growing on his face.

Sam cuts the tension with a loud sigh.

“Gosh, I have _so_ _much_ homework. It’s like they saved it up over break!”

“It does feel like that,” Cas agrees, glancing at him before returning to his scrutiny of Dean.

“I should probably stay here and get started.”

“Perhaps, if you really have that much,” Cas says absently, willing Dean to give some kind of tell as to his issue.

“Yeah. Sorry, Cas. Um, do you guys mind like, hanging out in Dean’s room, so I can have some quiet?”

 _That_ gets Dean’s attention.

Cas has never been in Dean’s room; has only ever been alone with Dean in this house one time, after that fight with his parents. Otherwise, he comes here to eat dinner and watch movies with Sam and Dean both, and it’s never occurred to him to question that.

Now, though, seeing the color flood Dean’s cheeks as he fixes Sam with a desperate, baleful stare, Cas feels like he may have wasted opportunities.

Of course, it would have required a great deal of maneuvering on his part, especially since even now, Cas can tell by the look on Dean’s face that he’s absolutely going to make up some excuse to say-

“Yeah, okay.”

Cas blinks.

_What?_

He was so sure Dean would say _no_.

“Cool, thanks,” Sam chirps eagerly. “Sorry, guys! I just have a lot of trouble focusing, and Dean’s really noisy.”

“I’m not—" Dean cuts off, pinching the bridge of his nose with a tired sigh. “Ugh, alright, Sammy. Holler if you need any help. Cas, uh . . . follow me, I guess.”

And then he heads for the hallway without looking to see if Cas actually does.

Mystified, Cas trails after him, choosing to ignore the conspicuous and exaggerated way Sam empties out his backpack, deliberately placing each item on the kitchen table. Once they get to his room, Dean stands back to allow Cas through, and then hesitates a moment before quietly shutting the door.

“So, uh. Sorry, it’s kind of messy, but — this is my room.”

Cas looks around. He’s not sure what Dean means by messy; Cas’s room looks like a disaster-zone in comparison, and even if it didn’t, Cas would call this tidy by any standard.

There are posters over the bed, rock bands and vintage muscle cars and a few conspicuous, scantily-clad women. The bedclothes are practical-but-soft-looking, navy sheets and a worn-looking hunter green duvet neatly made up. The desk across from it is a dark oak, the faded chair in front of it clearly not designed for a desk and possibly a relic from the seventies.

All together — apart from the unexpected tidiness — it’s a predictably masculine setup.

But Cas looks a little closer, finds comic books and some D&D manuals on the bookshelf, next to Harry Potter and Vonnegut; tucked a little behind the bulky computer monitor on the desk are a couple of anime figurines, and on a little stand next to it is a record player, beside which lay a box of vinyls. These are the things that give it personality, make it distinctly _Dean’s._

Dean clears his throat and starts toward the chair, before abruptly veering off and leaning against the twin bed.

“You, uh, you wanna sit?”

“Sure,” Cas says. He doesn’t _not_ want to sit; he’s mostly just a little confused as to where this is going.

So he goes to perch next to Dean, pretending like the scant few inches between them is just an unconscious coincidence.

Dean stares down at the space, though, a deep frown working it’s way across his face.

“Is everything alright, Dean?” he asks, because Dean has been behaving strangely, and Cas can only try and guess why. He favors none of his theories over the others, however, and he’d much rather Dean at least give him a hint.

“What? Yeah, no, everything’s good.” He shifts away a little, though, not looking at Cas, and unease fills him. Dean does seem a little upset, but Cas had been fairly confident it wasn’t anything _he_ did. He thought, perhaps, something had happened at practice, and Dean had wanted Cas to hang out and either distract him, or possibly talk about it with him. (Although Dean tends to save anything even remotely serious for the late-night conversations, whispered back and forth under literal cover; Cas does, too, because those times feel somehow separate, somehow safe from reality.)

Now, however, he’s beginning to suspect that he actually _is_ the source of Dean’s discomfort, and it’s a sudden, ugly feeling.

“If you’re sure.”

Dean just nods, staring hard at the floor, and Cas is torn between trying to think of something else to say, to assuage Dean’s ire — if that’s what this is — and waiting to see if Dean is simply trying to work up to telling him.

At least a minute goes by, them sitting side-by-side in silence, and it feels like even longer to Cas.

“Why did you bother with me?” Dean suddenly blurts out, eyes flying to Cas’s face, wide and a little fearful, like he’s both surprised by his own question and regretting asking it.

Cas, too, is surprised; of all the things he spent the last few minutes worrying about, that hadn’t come up.

“What do you mean?”

Dean looks away, visibly pained.

“Like — you know, we never . . . before you asked about the D&D stuff, we’d never talked.”

Cas raises a brow.

“I had questions about D&D.”

“That’s it? What about after that?” Dean presses, sounding frustrated. “You didn’t — there was no reason to talk to _me,_ Cas, but you did, and — and you kept doin’ it. Why?”

Cas takes a quiet breath, buying himself a second to think; he’s not sure what triggered this, but he can tell Dean isn’t asking on a whim, and he wants to be careful how he answers.

It’ll clearly matter.

“I wanted to be friends with you,” he settles on.

“But _why_?”

Cas hesitates.

“I thought you were cool.”

At that, Dean huffs, disbelieving.

“Yeah, right. Seriously, why? S’not like I made it easy on you, but you just — kept on coming, and I — I don’t get it.”

And that strikes Cas as sad, for some reason, because even though he had — _has —_ ulterior motives for befriending Dean, that doesn’t negate the fact that there are many other valid reasons why someone would. In the time since Cas approached him, Dean has proven himself to be a very good friend, to _all_ of his friends; because Dean, himself, is a good person, and aside from heart — which Cas is aware doesn’t seem to count for much amongst callous youth — Dean is clever, and funny, and even charming. If anything, Cas is surprised he doesn’t have to actually fight for Dean’s attention.

It seems unfair that Dean should doubt that.

“Maybe because I liked you,” Cas finds himself saying, and Dean just shakes his head.

“Yeah, you pretty much said that, but w—"

“No, Dean,” he interrupts gently, reaching out to put a hand over the one curled tight around the bedspread. “Because I _liked_ you.”

Dean’s gaze snaps to his, jaw slack.

He stares and stares, and Cas stares back, and for some reason, his heart is pounding. Dean’s nose is too strong and awkward in his face, cheeks still round, body compact and gangly all at once — not to mention still a good three inches shorter than Cas’s five-ten. He’s clearly a late bloomer, as they’ve discussed, but in spite of his upcoming birthday, his body seems determined to stay caught in this boyish in-between state. Cas wouldn’t be surprised if he were unrecognizable once it finally lets go.

Still, his mouth is full and soft, eyes that rare, impossible green, lashes thick around them, and the way he looks at Cas now — there is something beautiful about him, something that has lately had Cas catching himself staring more often than he cares to admit, something that, right now, has him wanting-

“I don’t believe that,” Dean finally says, eyes going dull, and it’s obvious he really doesn’t.

“It’s true,” Cas argues, a little breathless.

“Is it?” The challenge is clear in his voice. “Prove it.”

“How?”

Dean lifts his chin, freckles prominent against scarlet cheeks, but eyes determined.

“Kiss me,” he demands.

And Cas doesn’t even stop to think about it — he just _does._

Dean isn’t expecting it.

Oh, sure, he’d wanted to believe Charlie and Garth and all his other friends, with their suggestive comments or even outright insistence that Cas liked him like that.

He’d wanted to believe it when he’d lie awake, ensconced by blankets and listening to Cas regale him with tales of his huge, crazy religious family, or sometimes the shenanigans his friends had got up to over the years.

And he’d definitely wanted to believe it when Cas himself had said it, had clarified, unmistakably, that _yes,_ he _liked_ Dean. He’d thought about it, about how Cas always wait s for him , about the way Cas always _looks_ at him, listening — how he lets Dean _hold_ him, like he needs Dean to do it — and he wanted to believe that Cas was telling the truth.

But that kind of truth makes no sense, seems so _impossible_. It seems more like a hasty kindness, because Dean is sitting here, clearly having a meltdown, and why wouldn’t he, when he’s just a stupid child who hasn’t gotten his growth spurt yet and is starting to think he never will?

Telling Cas to kiss him is a reckless dare, a way to catch Cas out and remind himself, in the most hurtful, memorable way possible, that no freaking _way_ does he get to have this.

He doesn’t expect Cas to actually _do_ it.

But then Cas is leaning toward him, tilting his head and pressing soft lips to Dean’s, and Dean is so startled he doesn’t even close his eyes.

And then he thinks — well, that’ll be it, right? Cas feels sorry for him, and he doesn’t wanna back down, so he’ll just give Dean a quick peck and then change the subject and probably just hope Dean doesn’t bring it up again.

But a second goes by, and then another, and another, and then the pressure increases instead of receding, and finally, Dean’s eyes fall shut.

Cas is kissing him. Cas _kissed_ him, is _still_ kissing him, and Dean’s been entertaining furtive daydreams about this for weeks.

(Fine, maybe months.)

So even though this makes zero sense and there’s probably a catch somewhere in there, Dean figures if he’s screwed things up with this, not kissing back won’t make them unscrewed. Nah, all it’ll do is mean Dean misses out on a probably once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Which is why he presses forward and starts kissing back, and the moment he does, Cas’s hand comes up to cup the back of his neck, to slide down to his jaw, and Dean relaxes just enough to melt into the not-at-all-unexpectedly _amazing_ sensation that kissing Cas is turning out to be.

It’s not like Dean’s _never_ kissed anyone before; he vaguely remembers giving both Jo and Charlie — and okay, fine, Benny — a peck during elementary school games. In middle school, he’d kissed Cassie Robinson at a party during Spin the Bottle and they’d dated for a week before she told him she was moving away. (To the best of his knowledge, that wasn’t a lie.)

Still, it sums up to be pretty pathetic experience, _especially_ if you’re kissing a guy people freaking call _Casanovak._

This should be very off-putting to Cas — who, Dean thinks faintly, deserves every bit of that reputation, because even though Dean’s a little stiff and he’s not sure if it’s time to open his mouth or, if it is, how much to open it, Cas is still managing to do some pretty incredible-feeling things with _his_ mouth and — oh _shit,_ that’s his tongue, that’s his _tongue —_ and Dean decides _now_ is probably the right time to open his mouth.

He thinks he feels Cas smile against him, but he can’t be sure, because suddenly the hand that’s not holding Dean’s jaw is winding up through his hair and it feels unspeakably nice, so much so that he lets out a totally embarrassing little noise and just prays that that was normal for kissing and Cas isn’t about to start laughing at him.

His heart sinks as Cas pulls away, and he’s _sure_ Cas is about to comment on his lack of skill — but all Cas does is leave his hands where they are, moving to rest his forehead against Dean’s.

“We need to breathe,” he whispers, panting lightly into the space between them, and Dean realizes he’s doing the same.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He feels kind of dazed, and he doesn’t think it’s from lack of air. He can feel traces of saliva drying on his lips as he breathes in small, quiet gasps, and the fact that he’s not sure who it belongs to doesn’t help clear his head in the slightest.

They sit like that for a few seconds — or maybe a few minutes (Dean’s not all here right now) — and then Cas finally speaks.

“Do you believe it, now?”

If Dean weren’t already flushed from the kissing, the question would be making him blush.

He gives a very small nod.

“I think so.”

Cas grins.

“It’s alright. We can work on it.”

The next few days, Dean’s shy about it.

He seems a little uncertain when he sees Cas, even though he usually forgets to be nervous after they begin talking and he behaves normally until it’s time to say goodbye. He doesn’t specifically mention it, but it’s there in his eyes when Cas sits next to him at lunch, and when he comes back from practice; it’s in the way his body seems awkward next to Cas’s now, despite the comfortable negotiation of space they’ve both adopted over the last few months.

Cas suspects it has something to do with the things being said at school.

Gabe downright cackles when Cas reluctantly admits he kissed Dean, though he refuses to provide any more detail than, “We were at his house.” (Crowley calls him a spoilsport because of it, but nonetheless pays up.)

“So I guess now the rumors are true, Cassie!” he teases, and Cas tilts his head in confusion.

“What rumors?”

“The ones that say you’re slumming it, in the _biblical_ sense, with Dean Winchester.”

Cas doesn’t like how that sounds, and he asks Gabriel, specifically, what was said.

“Uh, pretty much that,” he says, and Bela snorts.

“A girl in my gym class was speculating that Dean must be willing to — ah, perform oral sex without reciprocation at your convenience, I believe it was, except in _much_ more colorful words — and her friend suggested _that_ can’t be right, because you could still get that from ‘someone much hotter.’” She rolls her eyes as she quotes them, mocking, but there’s an irritating trace of amusement in her contempt.

Cas, for his part, is not amused. An angry storm is brewing within him, and he almost demands to know _who_ was saying those things, so he can — well, he’s not sure what vengeance he’s willing to exact on a couple of teenage girls, but he’ll think of something suitable.

“Clearly, they don’t know what a prude he is. I want to blame _your_ lack of finesse on the fact that it’s taken so long to even reach this point, but history suggests the problem must be Dean,” Crowley sighs, and Cas snaps at him without thinking.

“Shut up.”

Crowley raises his brows.

“Oh? What’s wrong? Embarrassed now that everyone’s twigged to your little relationship and they think it might be real? You know, you can still back out, if you’d like.”

“ _No,_ he can’t,” Bela interjects quickly. “Nor does he want to. What are a few harmless rumors? Even if it does affect your reputation, you’re going to college in the fall — n ot that I think it _will_ affect your reputation, of course. I’m sure everyone will still be vying for your attention after your fling with Dean has passed.”

Cas hadn’t even thought of that, and frankly, he doesn’t care.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Surely people have better things to talk about.”

“Not really, no,” Gabe assures him. “This is high school, Cassie, c’mon! Beauty and the geek, in the flesh. Except, you know, his Dungeons & Dragons costume doesn’t come off in the end to reveal a sexy Prince Charming.”

Cas ignores him in favor of silent seething. _This_ is why Dean confronted him; he probably heard what people were saying, that they were all wondering _why,_ and it made him doubt it himself.

A part of Cas suggests this is a good thing — he isn’t sure when he would have been confident enough in Dean’s response to take that step — but mostly, he just feels furious with every stupid gossip and their crass, despicable theories, and even with his friends, who seem more amused than anything that people are talking about what’s _none of their business._

And, he realizes, this is also probably why the doubt still lingers in Dean’s eyes; why he’s trying to behave as though nothing has changed.

Maybe he thinks it _hasn’t._

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Cas says abruptly, and while he probably _will_ stop there, because he still has a half hour left of study hall, he has no intentions of returning. His friends just wave him away, Crowley joking that he’s probably off to prove himself to the gossip-mongers, and Bela retorting that Cas isn’t allowed to jeopardize her victory by cheating.

He doesn’t bother responding. Instead, he ducks into the boys’ room to splash some cold water on his face, and then he goes to wait in the main hall, where Dean is bound to pass through on his way to practice.

Eventually, the bell rings, and Cas is proven right; from the mouth of the English hall, Dean emerges, and the moment Cas catches sight of him, his foul mood gets _worse._

Lisa Braeden walks alongside Dean, perfect white teeth on display as she laughs at whatever undoubtedly funny thing Dean must have just said to her; Dean has that bright, happy grin he always gets when he’s with his favorite people, and it’s all so far beyond acceptable that Cas is moving before he’s even done forming a plan.

Fuck rumors, he thinks. He doesn’t give a damn, and he’s ready to march over there and show everyone that _ye_ _s_ _,_ it’s what they think it is; he’s ready to make _sure_ Dean understands that things have changed, in a very specific way; and he’s ready to make it clear to Lisa — with zero chance of misunderstanding — that regardless of how ‘hot’ she may think Dean’s going to get, right now is not the time to place her bets.

About ten feet away, though, he stops, because logic has crumpled up whatever red flag was waving in his face and cast it aside, reminding him that even if _he’s_ ready for that — Dean isn’t. If he goes up to Dean now, in the middle of the day, and does something stupid like _kiss him in front of the whole school,_ there will be no mistaking the situation.

And while that was, in fact, the whole point, it’s also a completely fucking stupid move.

 _John Winchester_ works here. In all their efforts to hide the time they spend with each other after school, they’ve both completely failed to realize that what other students are bound to notice, the teachers eventually are, too.

And sure, they barely see each other most of the day, but Cas does eat lunch with Dean’s friends almost every day, and it’s not like the campus is _empty_ when he waits with Sam Winchester after school until Dean shows up and they all leave together.

Of course people were bound to notice. And, of course, they were bound to talk.

And perhaps, if nothing appears to change, they’ll chalk it up to a weird friendship and find something new to talk about. Cas can only hope.

In the meantime, the last thing he should do is fan the flame, and Lisa’s already waving goodbye and heading in a different direction, anyway, so Cas shoves his hands in his pockets and skulks off to his last hour class without trying to get Dean’s attention.

It’s for the best, but he’s still not happy about it.

Despite his resolution not to provoke the rumors, Cas is still left with one piece of unfinished business — and that is Dean’s uncertainty.

It’s still there when he comes to find them after practice, and he doesn’t put a hand on Cas’s shoulder or stay close as they walk to the car, like he usually does.

It all leaves Cas feeling a strange, uncomfortable combination of upset and determined, and when they arrive at the Winchester house, he asks if John’s expecting Dean back.

Dean hesitates, then glances at Sam.

“Uh, Sam can tell him I’ll be at Charlie’s, if it’s not for too long.”

Cas nods.

“Can we go for a drive?”

Dean swallows, beginning to look uneasy.

“Uh, yeah. Sure. You good, Sammy? It won’t be for long.”

Sam looks between them curiously.

“Yeah. I’ll let Dad know if he’s back before you.”

“Thanks.”

Sam clambers out of the car, and Cas pulls away, well-aware of Dean’s fidgeting beside him.

Dean’s quiet as they drive out of the neighborhood, taking the main road to a dirt offshoot that leads to a small parking lot by the woods, where a hiking trail begins, and it’s not until Cas kills the engine that he finally speaks.

“So, uh. Did you — was there something you wanted to, um, talk about?”

Cas studies him, now that he’s not driving and he has the chance, and a wave of guilt washes over him at the worry in Dean’s eyes.

It’s alright, though. He’s pretty sure he knows how to fix it.

“Not exactly,” he says, and leans forward to kiss him.

Dean seems just as surprised as he was the other day, losing his balance and tilting backward and out of reach. Cas deftly unbuckles his seatbelt and follows, bringing his knee up on the seat so he can lean over Dean, one hand moving to fist around his jacket and the other reaching for soft, light-brown hair.

Dean makes a startled noise and turns before Cas even makes it over.

“What — what’re you doing?” he asks, breathless and eyes wide. He looks adorable like this, except for the part where he just pulled away, and something distinctly unpleasant settles in Cas’s stomach, along with all the other stresses of the day.

“I’m trying to kiss you. Do you — not want to kiss me anymore?”

“I.” Dean swallows, blinking, and — almost looks _relieved._ “Yeah. Yeah, I — I do. I just — didn’t know . . . is that why we’re here? I mean, is that all?”

“Well, I didn’t want to do it in front of Sam. And I don’t think your father would enjoy hearing about it if I did it in the hallway at school.”

Dean’s lips quirk, even though his face is bright red and he still looks a little shocked.

“Jeez, Cas, no, I don’t think he would.” He takes a deep breath, shifting a little where he leans against the door. “So — you didn’t — have anything to say?”

Cas is worried there’s a wrong answer to his, and he sits back.

“Uh. Should I?”

Dean coughs.

“Nope. No, this is — this is fine.”

It sounds highly suspicious, but there’s a happy sort of glint in Dean’s eye, so Cas decides to trust that _whatever_ his weirdness is about, it actually is fine.

“Alright. Well, then, if you don’t mind . . .”

Dean bites his lip, and then he nods.

“Sure, um, knock yourself out.”

Cas smiles at the phrase, and then he moves forward, pressing close as Dean’s eyes fall shut.

And this time, he doesn’t pull away.


	7. Part I: do you think that I want too much?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: discussion of sex between adolescents (again, no underage sex or explicit content in this part), sexual frustration that manifests in what could be construed as pressure (details in the notes), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> I am utterly useless right now, and if you're like me, you're struggling to focus, but in case anyone is looking for a distraction, here's this. I hope you're all well, and that we survive what's to come, however it goes. Thank you very much for reading, and for all your wonderful comments ❤

> _Eyes so bright_
> 
> _You got a hold of me the whole damn night_
> 
> _I toss and turn, but I still can't sleep right_
> 
> _I should have asked you to stay, begged you to stay . . ._
> 
> _\- Gimmie Love, Carly Rae Jepsen_

It’s like a dam has broken, after that.

For the most part, Dean doesn’t act differently — which makes sense, given that much of their time together in-person is with an audience. Cas likes that Dean talks to him the same way he always does, that he still engages in all the same casual, friendly touches he used to, with no noticeable shift in their meaning. (He supposes, if he must be honest, that he likes that Dean is still his _friend._ )

But then there’s also the part where Cas starts showing up in the mornings more often, and instead of trying to catch the sunrise, they find an empty classroom and settle for only peripherally appreciating the changing light in their surroundings; and the part where Dean, awkwardness transparent, will tell Sam he and Cas are going for a quick drive. Sam will then roll his eyes, but exit the car with a smirk and some snide remark which leaves Dean uncomfortable and embarrassed right up to the point they get to the trail and Cas puts the car in park.

Once that happens, Cas is quick to move way closer than the makers of the car ever intended for driver and passenger to get, and then Dean is a little too busy to care anymore.

And of course, there’s also the part where some days, John’s tied up with another commitment for the evening, so Dean tells Sam to get started on his homework and drags Cas to his room, where they sit on the bed and somehow it feels a little different, a little more private, and it seems right to slow things down and just take their time.

Cas doesn’t exactly hate all those parts, either.

He thinks, if he added up all the time he’s ever spent kissing other people in his life, it wouldn’t even come close to the amount of time he spends kissing Dean. And then there’s the part after the kissing, or sometimes even instead of the kissing, when they don’t have a lot of time, where Dean will just _hug_ him, like it’s as easy as breathing; like it’s a totally normal thing to do. And maybe for people who aren’t Cas, it is, but there’s just something about having someone who’s always happy to see you, about someone wrapping their arms around you at the end of the day and holding onto you, not with an end-goal in mind, but just because holding you and being held by you gives them something all on its own, and past not hating that, Cas thinks it might be a little bit wonderful.

Really, Cas has spent hours simply making out with Dean, hours just sitting curled up against him, and the only thing more astonishing to him than the fact that Dean has turned out to be a person who does things like that is that Cas has turned out to be a person who seems to need it, even if he never knew it before.

It’s all very — _nice,_ disturbingly so, even, and Cas finds himself so reluctant to intrude on the pleasant little bubble they’ve managed to create that he hardly sees his other friends anymore, and when he does, he gives as little detail as possible. They’re not happy about it, but Bela congratulates him on how utterly _smitten_ Dean looks when they sit together at lunch, so she’s not worried about it, either. Crowley, for his part, finds it becoming rather dull, but the money’s nothing to him and winning against Bela is more important, even if he has to wait until the end of semester deadline to do it, and aside from the vague, inevitable future that he largely refuses to think about-

Things are really _good._

Of course, he probably should have been thinking about said future a little harder; nothing good lasts, after all, and this — this is no exception.

It’s Dean’s sixteenth birthday, and though they already celebrated with another Saturday morning party at the Roadhouse over the weekend prior, Cas still insists on taking Dean to Missouri’s diner for burgers and pie. Sam declines, apologetically citing another school project with Jess, class unspecified, and says he’ll be home late to celebrate some more with Dean. Like, _eight o’ clock_ late, he clarifies, staring hard at Dean, who mumbles something completely unintelligible which Sam evidently takes as permission to head off with Jess.

(When Pamela teases, “ _Please_ tell me this one’s a date,” Cas promptly replies, “This one’s a date,” and Cas swears Dean’s eyes shine when he smiles — although, to Cas’s delight, he still blushes.)

They’re back at Dean’s house now, making inappropriate use of the sofa — that’s a first, bless Sam — when Dean suddenly breaks the kiss to yank on Cas, falling back and pulling him on top of him.

Startled, Cas tries to lift himself away, assuming it all to be unintentional, but Dean’s grip on his shoulders is surprisingly firm as he reattaches himself to Cas’s mouth, and Cas is quickly drawn back into the moment.

And then Dean starts shifting around, which Cas doesn’t pay much attention to, either, being somewhat preoccupied with a thorough exploration of Dean’s mouth, until suddenly, Dean has wriggled his legs out from underneath Cas and is smoothly locking his ankles around the small of his back.

Which — Cas is pretty sure — nay, almost _positive —_ that this is a Problem ™ , and it’s _way_ past time to cool things off.

But — Dean is wound tight around him, mouth moving hot and urgent against his own, and they’re just so _close —_ they’ve never _been_ so close — and all of the sudden it feels like one of the first times he ever did this, frantic and blissful and maybe something else, too, something that’s not like those times or any other times, either _—_ but then Dean pushes up against him and oh _God,_ he’s gotten so good at this since that first, awkward kiss, and it’s like everything inside of Cas, blood and bone and soul surges in response, demanding _more,_ and he’s losing it, he’s definitely losing it, he’s not supposed to be losing it-

He lurches back, tearing himself away from Dean with a sharp inhale.

Dean stares up at him, cheeks flushed and breathing hard; his lips are red and swollen, and there’s hardly any green still visible around his pupils He looks dazed and confused and so goddamn _good,_ and Cas is struggling to remember why this is not okay, even though he’s definitely sure it’s not, when a sound cuts through the fog and he freezes.

It’s the sound of the garage door opening.

Dean’s eyes go wide and he shoves Cas off of him, frantically pulling down his t-shirt — when the _hell_ did it move up? Cas wonders — and smoothing his hands over his hair, which is, admittedly, a wreck.

Then he looks at Cas, stark panic in his face, and hisses, “Go wait in my room!”

Cas wastes no time obeying, thoughts of running into John on his way there tormenting him as he flees.

He shuts the door behind him just as he hears a different door open, John’s steps heavy as he enters the hall.

It’s over half-an-hour before Dean comes back, but Cas doesn’t hear raised voices or anything, so he assumes they’ve successfully avoided being caught.

Not to mention Cas has also successfully avoided . . . whatever that was, although the half-hour gives him plenty of time to worry that that won’t be the end of it.

Dean enters the room, a finger pressed to his lips, and quickly shuts the door behind him. The finger stays up as he leans back, listening, and then he sighs.

“Okay so — the good news, Dad didn’t notice anything amiss; the bad news is, he and Bobby wrapped up early on the car, and you, uh, you kinda gotta leave through the window.”

Cas blinks, and Dean laughs weakly.

“Hey, at least it’s a one-storey, right?”

“At least,” Cas repeats dryly, and suddenly Dean smiles, one of the soft, closed-mouth ones where his eyes crinkle at the corners. “What?”

“Nothin’, just — you got incredible eyes, you know?”

He turns red as soon as he’s said it, and Cas doesn’t bother holding back the grin. He’s heard this before; he knows his eyes are one of his best features, and it’s nice to know Dean’s not immune.

“They are very blue, yes.”

“No — I mean, _yeah,_ but — like, they’re so . . . I dunno, expressive. Your face doesn’t move at all bu your eyes are freakin’ novels. It’s amazing.”

_That_ — Cas hasn’t heard that before. It — it’s very flattering, he decides, momentarily speechless.

Dean looks down, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Jesus, sorry, that was — that was lame. I, uh — you should probably get going, just in case. And thanks for — y’know, paying more attention than I was. That was close.”

Cas comes back to himself, finally, and it takes a few seconds to understand what Dean means.

He thinks Cas stopped because he heard John’s _car_.

Well — that’s not a bad thing. Honestly, Cas isn’t sure what his excuse would have been, otherwise, assuming Dean brought it up.

“Of course. I don’t think I’m any more eager to face your father’s wrath than you are.”

Dean chuckles.

“Didn’t think so.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Well, I’ll — see you tomorrow, I guess?”

Instead of moving away, Cas inches toward him, unable to resist.

“What, I don’t get a goodbye kiss?”

Dean looks up, and there’s a twinkle in his eye. He stays still, but he seems happy and expectant, and if they had more time, maybe Cas would tell Dean how amazing it is that he’s expressive, too — not just in his eyes, but in his face and his hands and his whole body.

“I dunno, Cas. Do _I_?”

Cas rolls his eyes and kisses him, a chaste, light press of their mouths that Dean breaks after a moment, pulling Cas in for a hug.

“Sucks,” he mumbles, face in Cas’s shoulder.

“What?”

Dean doesn’t look up, but he shifts his mouth a little closer to Cas’s ear, and his next words send a chill down Cas’s spine.

“That we were interrupted.”

Cas doesn’t have anything to say to that, and once he’s safely out the window, he barely manages to locate his car a couple houses down before driving home in a daze.

So — clearly, Cas’s hopeful assumption that Dean was just getting carried away and didn’t even realize what he was doing is kind of shot.

Cas tries not to panic over this.

He fails.

He and Dean have only been kissing for a few weeks, he reasons. That’s hardly any time at all. (At the beginning of the year, Cas would have said that was an eternity, but this is _Dean._ ) And he’s read the statistics before, in health class, and according to _them_ the average age people have their first sexual experience is _seventeen._ Seventeen! Dean’s _barely_ sixteen — this is _far_ too soon for him to be interested in doing anything like that! (Cas studiously ignores what the word ‘average’ means, and how he himself contributed to it.)

He still wants to believe it was a fluke. _Surely,_ it was a fluke. Up to this point, they’ve leaned against car doors and bedroom walls, but they’ve never gotten remotely horizontal, and the only bare skin Cas’s hands have touched have been above the collarbone, if you don’t count arms, which he doesn’t. Cas has been diligent about this, and it hasn’t even been difficult; they usually just sit side by side and make out, and even if it’s not actually the most comfortable position for that and his neck tends to become a little sore by the end of it, it’s still _nice._ It feels _right._ Doesn’t Dean agree?

Perhaps not, he worries.

The week proceeds normally, for the most part, and Cas’s anxiety levels off as the days pass with no repeats of the birthday situation.

Sure, it seems like Dean tries to linger a little longer with him in the mornings, or in the car after school, but if it sometimes _feels_ slightly more intense than usual, that isn’t really reflected in actions. In fact _,_ it’s likely just Cas being paranoid, because he’s like that, and he needs to stop. He needs to focus on making sure Dean’s actual _feelings_ are progressing, not worrying about whether his physical interest is, because Dean’s sixteen and Cas suspects he’s Dean’s first . . . uh, his first . . . not-just-friends relationship. (He refuses to use the word ‘boyfriend.’)

After all, Cas doesn’t exactly remember hearing an “I like you, too,” anywhere in that conversation after the New Year. He _assumes_ it was implied, but per the requirements of the bet, implied isn’t really good enough.

But — Cas has never really had a . . . a, uh . . . well, not-just-friends _relationship_ before this, either; he’d never felt inclined to, because he generally didn’t have a lot of feelings about people, of any kind. Which has worked out very well for him, in his opinion, but it also means he has no idea how to talk about feelings in this context, and he’s beginning to worry that in spite of the care Dean shows his friends, in spite of the warm, protective cuddles he has to offer, Dean is not accustomed to or even interested in _talking_ about the feelings behind it all.

Which, alright, perhaps Cas should have anticipated this, given how flustered Dean has always gotten when Cas flirts with him or says nice things — but he’d hoped once he told Dean he _liked_ him, Dean would be more comfortable. Cas spends practically all his time, it feels like, hanging out with or _making_ out with Dean; Dean has to feel plenty secure at this point, hasn’t he?

But then, Cas supposes, he’s not exactly _romantic_. Oh, he’s fine at flirting, and teasing, and all of the skills a person has no choice but to develop if they don’t want to spend a party drunk and sad and by themselves — but when Dean and Cas talk, they talk like friends; and when they make out, well, they don’t really talk. Should Cas be — _saying_ more things? Romantic things? About Dean, and feelings?

But _what_ things?

Obviously, Dean likes him back. (He’s fairly certain, anyway.) But that took a while, and Cas has no idea where Dean is at in terms of a progression to thinking he’s in _love._ Certainly, he doesn’t know what would prompt Dean to say it.

Will Cas have to say it first?

( _Can_ he?)

Even if he does, Dean would have to _believe_ it, and their track record thus far suggests that might yet prove a difficult task.

It all distracts Cas from the other issue, like he’d hoped, but ultimately does little for his anxiety.

“What’s wrong with you?” Gabe asks on Friday, plunking down next to him at a Library table.

Cas shrugs.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Ooh, yeah, Cassie, super convincing lie. Tell it again.”

With a sniff, Cas hunches over his textbook, and Gabe chuckles.

“Is it Winchester drama?”

“Maybe.”

“Ah, I knew that boy would be trouble. Somethin’ scrappy about the kid.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Gabe gives him a look.

“It _means,_ Cassie, that his type doesn’t go down without a fight.”

“Yes, well, the last two months can attest to that.”

“Uh-huh. So, what’s going on now?” he asks, sounding like he only half-cares as he pulls a bag of jellybeans out of seemingly nowhere.

Cas makes face.

“I . . . I was perhaps a little too ambitious.”

“Kid’s a spitfire, is he?”

“It’s not _that,_ it’s just that I — I’m not sure if there’s something I should be doing. Something more.”

“Uh. Well, I can recommend some marital aids—"

“I’m _not_ going to sleep with him,” Cas hisses, perhaps a little more sensitive to the subject than he would have been last week.

“Okay, _okay_ , simmer down, kid. What do you mean by ‘more,’ then?

“Well — I — dates are, uh, difficult, but even if we went on more of those, is there . . . should I be saying things? To Dean? About — things?”

Gabriel gets a constipated expression, and Cas tries not to let his humiliation show. Why is he even _asking_ Gabe, anyway? Gabe has a volatile on-again off-again thing going with a girl named Kali who went to college last year, but that hardly counts as a steady relationship, and also — it’s _Gabe._ He’s as likely to give Cas bad advice on _purpose_ , even if he does have good answers, which he probably doesn’t.

“So, you’re asking me — what? How to make love to him the old-fashioned way?”

“I don’t even want to know what that means, and I already said—"

“Ha! Sounds filthy, right? It’s not. The old-timey people used to say ‘make love’ for wooin’, not bonin’.”

Cas gives Gabe a suspicious look.

“I don’t know if I believe you.”

He looks offended.

“I’m tellin’ ya, it’s true! Pick up a Georgette Heyer, you neanderthal. Anyway, _is_ that what you’re asking?”

“ _Possibly,_ ” Cas hedges. “Do you think I need to? It occurred to me that I hadn’t ever acted with — this particular goal, in mind.”

“Mm. _Well._ Kinda depends, Cassie. He _might_ lay down a love confession, just to get it off his chest, but as mad, bad, and dangerous to know as you might be, Deano doesn’t really seem like the type to go ruining himself over it. ” Gabe lets out a whoop, lifting a hand. “ _Two_ regency references in one day — gimme five!”

Without offering his own palm for impact, Cas just stares, leaving Gabe to pout.

“Okay, fine, don’t gimme five. I’m just being _helpful._ ”

“You’re talking in riddles.”

“ _Fine_ , I’ll break it down for you. It took you two months to get a kiss out of him, and since _somebody_ suddenly rediscovered their sensibilities, I don’t even know what prompted _that._ However, I know John Winchester’s type, and even if his son disagrees with him on every point there is — that shit carries down; if I _had_ the money, I’d bet your boyfriend was as emotionally stunted as they come.”

That’s not good, Cas thinks, although he suspects Gabe is right.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

Cas sighs.

“You could be.”

“Oh, I am. _So,_ y’know — it’s up to you to help him along.”

“Meaning . . .”

“Meaning _yeah_ , Cassie, you gotta say shit.”

Cas sighs. He was afraid of that.

“What shit do I say?”

“How the hell should I know? _I’m_ not dating him. Just say sweet, spontaneous shit. Allude to the burning fire in your heart. Things like that.”

Oh, dear. That sounds difficult. And vague. Which are not infrequently the same thing for Cas.

His feelings must show on his face, because Gabriel laughs out loud.

“Or, you keep doing what you’re doing, even if it takes a little longer. It got you this far, didn’t it?”

“That’s true,” Cas agrees, cheering a little. Doing what he’s been doing isn’t very hard at all; in fact, it sounds nice. If things could just stay the way they are, and eventually Dean will come to love him — well, that sounds pretty close to _perfect._ “Thank you, Gabe. You were very helpful.”

Gabe beams.

“Don’t mention it.” Under his breath, however, Cas swears he hears him add, “Poor bastard.”

He chooses not to think too hard about what that means.

“Like, do you think I’m doing something wrong?”

Charlie chews her lip, clearly as bamboozled by the situation as Dean is.

“I — well, I’m not there, and I sure don’t wanna be, but — it doesn’t _sound_ like you’re doing anything wrong.”

“I guess I just thought — I mean, to be honest, I thought he’d change his mind after the first time, that it was probably a — a pity thing, a whim of the moment, but — I mean, you know how that turned out. And he keeps coming to school early in the morning, so I was sure that he — you know, _was_ — and I’m almost positive he’s not seeing anybody else, but . . .”

“But it’s Castiel Novak and he hasn’t even tried to grope your butt,” Charlie finishes for him, gratifying worry in her tone.

“ _Exactly._ I mean, I know I’m not what he usually — but it didn’t seem like that mattered.” And it didn’t; Dean was sure it had to, but Cas keeps hanging out with him all the rest of the time, so he’s clearly not trying to use Dean for, uh, things, and he seems pretty happy to sit there and kiss Dean for as long as they can get away with, so he’s obviously not trying to let him down gently.

Well, Dean _thinks_ that’s obvious. Nobody would do that, right? They wouldn’t come to school early to make out with you if they actually just wanted to be friends because they were like a 12 and you were a 5, on a good day?

It sounds crazy, but then, Dean’s heard crazier.

“Ugh. Normally, I’d say everybody moves at their own pace, but we kinda know what Cas’s is, and this isn’t it.”

“ _Right_?” Dean exclaims. “It’s givin’ me a complex. I’ll try and — uh, you know. Move things along, but — he’s like a machine with one setting.”

And Dean _has_ tried; he thought they were getting somewhere on his birthday, and would have actually _gotten_ there if his Dad hadn’t come home early, but ever since then, any time he’s tried to convey, through his kisses, through the way he holds onto Cas, that he’s ready for more than that, it’s like Cas eases _back_. Could Dean just be bad at communicating?

But how else can he _say_ it? There’s no way in hell he could use _words._

Charlie thinks about this for a long while, and when she finally speaks, she looks pained.

“Ooh-kay. I, um, really don’t wanna ask this, but I will. So, when you’re making out, is he — I mean, does he — like, when you guys really get into it, does his — can you tell if—" she trails off, face red as she buries it in her hands. “Oh, God. You know what I mean.”

Dean stares back at her, anxious and confused.

“No? What are you talking about?”

An anguished, pitiful sound — sort of like a dying animal — escapes through her fingers, and if Dean didn’t know any better, he’d swear the muffled words that followed were: “Does he get hard?”

But _that_ can’t be right.

“Uh. I — I don’t think I got that,” he says, blushing furiously.

Charlie pulls her hands down, still red-faced and cringing.

“I asked, _does he get hard?_ ”

Okay, so maybe he did get that.

Dean quickly looks away, squirming where he sits.

“Um, I don’t — like, I, uh, can’t really tell. We — we don’t get that close. And, um, I -I didn’t think to, uh, look.” The one time they _did_ get that close, it lasted for all of five seconds before his dad came home, and he doesn’t even know if he was in a position to tell that, anyway.

Charlie sniffs.

“Okay, so — some pretty sedate making out.”

“Uh, yeah.” That’s the problem, isn’t it? Dean feels like he’s in middle school, the way they kiss. Enthusiastic and like they can’t get enough of it, but also like they don’t know there’s more.

Dean _does_ know there’s more, and he knows Cas knows, too.

He just doesn’t know why it isn’t happening.

“Alright, well — I mean, it could be he’s not . . . turnedon,” she says quickly, “But I don’t think he’d keep kissing you if that were the case. So, _probably,_ what’s happening, is he’s being considerate of _you._ ”

“Me? Like — like he thinks _I’m_ not ready?”

“Exactly.”

Dean is floored. He figured, especially since Cas isn’t seeing anybody else — like, he really hopes Cas isn’t seeing anybody else, and he hasn’t heard anything to suggest otherwise — that the guy would probably be a little eager for some action, given what he’s used to. Dean was afraid he’d feel like they were moving too _slow._

Maybe — maybe Charlie is right.

But it’s been practically a month now, and Dean’s not some shy, innocent flower; he doesn’t want Cas to be _considerate,_ damn it, he wants Cas to _touch him._

“Shit,” he mutters. “Am I — am I gonna have to say something?”

It’s all good and well to feel that way, but the idea of breaking the kiss to say, “Hey, Cas, this is awesome and all, but I also kinda wanna touch your dick,” has Dean wanting to curl up and die from embarrassment.

“Uh, Dean?” Charlie says, and Dean realizes he has, in fact, fallen over, and is burying his face in her duvet.

“I _can’t,_ ” he whimpers, muffled by the bedspread.

“Okay, that’s fine.” She pauses. “Um, maybe in that case, though, you — well, maybe he’s right?”

“You’re not _seriously_ giving me Jody’s if-we-can’t-talk-about-it speech, are you?”

“ _No,_ I’m not! I’m just — _saying,_ that if he’s not pressuring you, you shouldn’t — feel pressured?”

Dean finally sits up, jaw set.

“I _don’t_ , and I know what I want. It’s just — you know I’m not good with words. And there’s no guarantee how he’ll react.”

“Okay. If you’re sure. Then . . . maybe you need to try a little harder—" she winces “-in other ways. I mean, I don’t know exactly what you’ve been doing — and let’s _keep it_ that way — but maybe you’re too subtle.”

He sighs.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m probably bein’ too subtle.”

And so-

Dean resolves to try harder.

It was not a fluke, it was not a fluke — god _damn_ it, it was not a fluke.

Cas is all set to let things play out at their own pace, but when he comes to school on Monday, things have changed.

Things have changed _a lot._

Dean’s got this look on his face while he’s waiting by his locker, one Cas can’t interpret but is probably responsible for the fact that Dean hardly says anything to him before he does a quick check of the hallway and pulls Cas into an empty classroom. It’s not a problem, at first, because things seem to proceed pretty normally from there, but then — Dean’s hands start moving.

And not just through Cas’s hair, or lightly touching his jaw, or any of the other unspoken safe zones they’ve established.

No, about three minutes into the kiss, Dean’s hand starts sliding down his back, then _keeps_ sliding, and then, suddenly, he’s palming the top of Cas’s ass. They’re just light, tentative strokes, but Cas barely manages not to shriek like a child.

The last thing he wants to do is _discuss_ it, though, so he keeps on kissing Dean and covers by giving him a little push, turning them around so he can lift Dean onto some poor Science teacher’s desk, and Dean lets out a happy little grunt on impact, clutching at Cas’s shoulders like this is an improvement — and it is; _this_ way, Cas can brace his hands against the surface as he leans in, thus leaving _more_ space between their bodies and taking his butt safely out of reach (although Dean seems to be trying to wriggle forward in an effort to close the gap).

At last, the first bell rings. They compose themselves, and at the door, Dean gives him this _heated_ look when he says he’ll see him later.

It does not bode well for Cas.

By the end of the day, he’s trying not to panic over the impending car makeouts and failing miserably. He’s crafty, right? He can just distract Dean, like he did this morning. Maybe Dean just has some kind of weird, hormonal thing going on today, and he’ll be fine tomorrow. They _are_ teenagers, after all.

Cas is right to be afraid, it turns out, because once they’ve parked, Dean starts scooting much closer than he normally does — even closer than he seemed to be getting last week — and the windows are _just_ beginning to look a little foggy when Dean’s hand lands on Cas’s leg.

The leg isn’t a no-fly zone, _exactly._ Cas has been known to put one hand on Dean’s knee and one on his shoulder, just for better leverage, and Dean sometimes does the same, but the hands never roam once they’ve landed, and t here’s never anything particularly _interesting_ about the hands being there.

Today, though — today, the hand lands halfway up Cas’s thigh and fucking _moves_ from there. And _not_ toward his knee. Nope, Cas is just beginning to lose his rhythm kissing, wondering why the hand has ventured into this uncharted territory, when it slides practically to his hip and a thumb starts circling uncomfortably close to his groin.

Cas almost laughs, feeling mildly hysterical; if he didn’t know any better, he’d think Dean was actually _looking_ for something.

He shifts a little, trying to draw away, but then Dean’s palm starts dragging toward the front of his jeans-

Cas lurches back, plastering himself to the driver’s side door a good two feet away from Dean as he tries to catch his breath.

“What — what are you doing?”

Dean looks a little embarrassed, uncertainty creeping into his features.

“Uh. You know. I’m just . . .”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, and Cas — Cas has no idea what to say.

Finally, Dean clears his throat.

“Sorry. I didn’t — is that a problem?”

_Yes!_ Cas wants to scream. _Yes, that’s a problem! Didn’t your parents ever tell you where wandering hands ultimately wander_ to _?!!_

He’s acting like a twelve-year old, he knows, but he can’t help it. Just when he’d decided to be comfortable with how things were going, Dean springs this on him.

(He cringes at his own phrasing.)

“No,” he says instead. “It’s just — we’re in the car. I don’t — if we get carried away, and someone comes by . . .”

The tension bleeds out of Dean as understanding dawns.

“Oh. Yeah, no, you’re right.” He laughs, an awkward sound tinged with relief, and Cas doesn’t think his heart rate will ever return to normal again. “Sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay. I wasn’t, either. Well, until I was. Obviously.” Cas takes a deep breath. “I suppose we should head back.”

Cas is sure Dean doesn’t look disappointed. He’s _sure._

“Right, it’s gettin’ kinda late, I guess.”

They drive back to Dean’s street in silence, and out of habit, Cas kisses Dean goodbye.

Dean sighs into it, bringing a palm up to Cas’s chest.

“Wish you could come in,” he murmurs, and whatever progress Cas had made calming down catapults itself right out the window.

“Me, too,” he lies, and Dean gives him a small smile before he gets out and goes inside.

It’s a struggle to fall asleep that night. Every time he thinks of that moment in the car, his heart starts racing all over again.

Dean wants _more_.

Cas wasn’t prepared for that — _i_ _sn’t_ prepared for that.

What the hell is he going to do?

Dean can’t figure Cas out _at all._

Cas definitely freaked out in the car; there’s no other way to describe what happened there.

But he said it was because they were in public, which — that’s fair. Dean’s inclined to agree, actually. He was so nervous about trying to communicate what he wanted that he didn’t really think about it, but actually, Cas is totally right.

Dean doesn’t think he could ever be comfortable having anything approximating sex in a _car._

(Not that he doesn’t think about Baby’s backseat sometimes. Just occasionally. But that’s _fantasy;_ he would never be so bold in real life, he’s sure.)

As for the classroom, Dean never even considered it, even though Cas _lifting him up_ and putting him on the desk was ridiculously hot. Dean’s a little disappointed that he’ s not confident he could return the favor, not to mention he’s way too chicken to try, but he definitely wouldn’t mind more of that. S till, school grounds are a definite _no_ for anything more than some very light groping.

Which leaves his room. It shouldn’t be too hard to get Cas in his room, right? They’ve spent a ton of time in there over the last month, after all.

Yet, _somehow_ , Cas is suddenly busy.

On Wednesday, Dean asks if Cas wants to come in, rather than going for a drive, because John is helping Bobby at the shop.

But Cas’s little brother is trying to learn how to ride a bike and he wants Cas’s help, apparently, so he has to get home as soon as he can. Which, that’s fine. Dean’ll spend some time with Sammy; he’s probably been slacking off as a big brother, himself, which isn’t cool.

But on Friday, after the movie, Cas has to get home to babysit because his parents are going to have date night. Dean tries to remember if this has happened before, and then feels bad about it, because there’s no reason for Cas to _lie._

The next Monday, Cas doesn’t show up in the morning. When asked about it, Cas says he spent Sunday night watching his niece, and keeping track of a two-year-old is a lot more exhausting than anybody ever tells you. The affection in his voice makes Dean smile, and he tries to take the absence at face value and not worry.

But then Cas sits with his friends at lunch, which, okay, he always does, a couple times a week, but combined with everything else, _definitely_ makes Dean worry.

His friends aren’t helpful.

“So, Valentine’s day is next week,” Garth announces cheerfully. “I hear the choir’s gonna do those cute little sing-o-grams this year.”

He sounds excited about it, and Dean suspects he’s probably the only one who is.

“Hm. Do you get to pick what they sing?” Jo asks, and Garth nods enthusiastically.

“Sure do, Joanna Beth! Why, you got your eye on somebody special this year?”

She hums, smile full of mischief.

“Oh, I guess you could say that.”

“Jo,” Charlie scolds. “You can’t send an acapella version of Sir Mix-A-Lot to people as a prank.”

“I wasn’t gonna!” she protests. “I was gonna send _The Reason_ to Meg Masters.”

“Jo, she literally _punched_ the DJ who played it at homecoming because she was so sick of it.”

“I’ll send it anonymously.”

“Think of the choir kids!” Charlie implores, and the rest of the table bursts out laughing.

“What about you, Dean?” Jo asks, grinning. “Are you and Cas gonna take a romantic weekend together?”

Dean makes a face.

“You know we can’t.”

She looks surprised.

“Oh. Are you saying you’d want to?”

Across the table, Charlie is giving him a sympathetic look; he hasn’t exactly confided his issues to the rest of him, but if she keeps being obvious like that, he’s going to have to.

“No. We probably won’t do anything,” he adds, trying to change the subject. “It’s a girls’ holiday, anyway.”

“Woah, buddy, say that again?”

He sighs.

“You know what I mean. Just — seriously, can you picture me or Cas doing the romantic gesture thing? It’s just not us.”

And Dean’s totally cool with that. He doesn’t want chocolate or flowers or a candlelit dinner.

He might be willing to accept a trail of rose petals leading to a goddamn bed, though.

“Aw, you sure?” Benny teases. “I reckon you’d be all over him if Cas showed up outside your door with a bunch o’ cute lil’ cue cards.”

“A) I can’t believe you watched that movie, Benny, and B) Cas doesn’t _need_ to do that, ‘cause Dean’s already all over him.”

There’s more laughter, and Dean can’t even be irritated, because they have _no idea._

Eventually, they move on to other topics, and Dean stays quiet and just kind of zones out, still worrying over what Cas’s behavior means, if it even means anything. Dean could also just be pulling a Glenn Close here.

Charlie links arms with him as they go on to their next class.

“I’m guessing it’s not going so great?” she asks gently, and he shakes his head.

“Nope. I — I kinda feel like he’s avoiding me. I mean, he’s got good reasons, but—"

“You just have that feeling.”

“Yeah.”

She lets out a great big sigh, and squeezes his arm.

“I _think_ it might be time to talk to him, then.”

God, that is the _last_ thing Dean wants to do.

“I don’t wanna,” he whines, even though it’s childish. This is Charlie; he’s allowed to act like a little kid with Charlie.

“’Course you don’t! _But —_ you gotta. Go forth, handmaiden. Express thyself.”

So when they get to Dean’s house that day, he asks Sammy to head inside and turns to Cas.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Like ripping off a band-aid, right?

Cas blanches.

“What?”

“Sorry, I just — I feel like maybe I did something. You — it almost seems like you’re avoiding me.”

Cas just blinks back at him, looking like a (really, really hot) startled doe.

“No? No, I’ve just had other things going on. But — you didn’t do anything. And I’m not avoiding you.”

Dean searches his face. It’s not unreasonable, to believe him. It’s only been a week, after all. Really, Dean shouldn’t have even said anything; Cas probably thinks he’s crazy now.

But some part of him is still unsure.

“Oh. Okay.” He hesitates. “D’you, um, wanna come in, then?”

For a second, Dean swears Cas looks nervous, but then it’s gone, and he gives Dean a small smile.

“Sure.”

Sam is already working at the kitchen table, fuzzy black headphones covering his ears — Dean has noticed that Sam only listens to music while he studies when Cas is over, and as embarrassing as that is, he’s also kinda grateful — so they simply pause to wave at him before going on to Dean’s room.

It’s stupid, especially since Cas _just_ said he wasn’t avoiding him, but Dean feels shy all over again once they’re there.

And Cas, for whatever reason, seems to be waiting on him to make the first move, as if they’d even be in Dean’s room if they weren’t gonna make out.

So he slides closer, and it’s only awkward for a few seconds before it’s not awkward at all, and when Cas curls an arm around his waist and holds him close, it feels like exactly the reassurance Dean needs.

That, more than anything, is what convinces Dean that he was worried for nothing, because Cas kisses him like he always kisses him, and it’s good, it’s really good, for several minutes.

It’s so good that Dean feels emboldened, and he lets his hands drop down and slide up under Cas’s t-shirt.

Cas freezes.

The fear comes rushing right back in, and for a moment, he’s sure Cas is about to push him away — but then Cas relaxes, hands moving to rest on Dean’s waist, and he resumes kissing back while Dean’s hands gently explore soft, smooth skin.

It gives Dean hope. Maybe Cas really _is_ trying to be considerate; maybe Dean wasn’t starting out slow enough, and Cas was worried about it. There is some middle ground, after all. It’s not like they’re in a hurry.

He’s still a little frustrated when Cas suddenly tugs Dean down so they’re lying on the bed, inspiring a brief moment of hope before mercilessly squashing it when he pulls back, wrapping an arm around Dean’s waist and resting their heads together.

“I missed you last week,” he says, and even though Dean has the distinct impression the kissing is over with for today, the words give him such a warm, pleasant feeling in his chest that he doesn’t care.

“You’ve got no idea,” he mumbles back, shy, and Cas smiles, drawing patterns against his shoulder blade as they simply lie there, catching their breaths and just looking at each other, until they eventually start talking in the same quiet way they usually save for their nighttime calls.

And that’s fine with Dean; it’s more than fine. Just as long as Cas still wants him, still wants to _be_ with him — Dean can work with that.

The trick, Cas discovers, is to avoid Dean’s bedroom.

Dean’s bedroom is where sinister, adventurous things happen, like hands under t-shirts and marks sucked into skin, things that Dean’s either not brave enough to do or not interested in doing at school or in the car, where they could be discovered at any moment.

Cas never would have thought the risk of being caught doing something he shouldn’t would be such a goddamn relief, but here he is. After years of being petrified by the thought of unseen judgment from the sky and, later, loud and angry judgment within his house, Cas considers it a _blessing_ that someone could walk by at any moment.

That risk, after all, is the _only_ thing that will protect him from either having to give in to Dean’s unspoken requests — which, no matter how fuzzy Cas’s brain seems to be getting lately, he refuses to do — or outright reject Dean, which he _definitely_ can’t do. If he does that . . . he doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows it will be over. He knows that, somehow, that will affect the trust Dean has in him, in his feelings, and he will no longer believe he is wanted.

It’s really fucking _unfair._

So Cas lets Dean get away with a lot more in the mornings before school and in the car after it, because he knows it will only go so far there, and he knows if he doesn’t, Dean’s smart enough to put two and two together and figure out something’s not right. This way, he can pretend the only thing that’s stopping him is circumstance.

And it seems to be working. Sure, Dean pouts a little whenever Cas makes up some reason not to come inside, or why he has to go home after they watch a movie with Sam, but Dean’s room usually isn’t an option, anyway; Cas doesn’t think it’s _too_ strange, and Dean doesn’t seem to think so, either.

Indeed, by some miracle, things seem to be working out.

Except for the part where Cas is kind of going _crazy._

Cas isn’t sure if it’s all in his head or if some real, minute physical changes are happening, because he swears to God Dean gets more handsome every day. Cas stares at Dean a lot, trying to figure it out, but he can’t seem to pinpoint any specific thing about him that’s changing. Technically, Dean looks pretty much the same as he did when they met. And yet, somehow, he just seems — _more._

Of course, that _could_ have something to do with the fact that Cas hasn’t seen any serious action since school started and Dean spends at least thirty minutes of every day getting Cas unbelievably riled up without any promise of relief. Cas doesn’t mean to, he doesn’t, but it’s hard — wrong word, _wrong word —_ that is, _difficult_ not to feel anything when he and Dean are together like that — especially now that he’s been forced to allow things to get a great deal more heated than he’d ever intended.

He’s only human, after all.

And it’s not like he can ask anyone for advice, like his friends. Nor does he want to; it’s their fault he’s in this position — _wrong word —_ in the first place.

“Has . . . he gotten prettier?” Bela asks abruptly when they’re at lunch one day, and it takes Cas a moment to realize she’s even talking about Dean.

_Yes!_ h e nearly shouts. _It’s not just me, right? I’m not crazy, am I?_

(Although the manic enthusiasm of his internal monologue begins to suggest otherwise.)

“Who, Dean?” he asks, feigning nonchalance. “Do you think so?”

She frowns.

“I do. It’s weird; in theory, he doesn’t look that much different, but — it’s different enough.”

Crowley squints at Dean’s table.

“You’re right. He _is_ getting rather pretty. Of course, he still looks about fourteen.”

Cas tries and fails to suppress an angry flush. Way to make him feel like a goddamn _pervert._

“Nah, he doesn’t. Not if you look closely,” Gabe says. “How closely have you been looking, anyway, Cassie? Thinkin’ about changing your mind?”

“Absolutely not,” he snaps, and everybody raises their brows.

“Wow,” Crowley murmurs. “Sensitive, much?”

Cas doesn’t know what to say, so he quietly fumes instead.

He does a lot of that, lately.

Cas is gonna be the death of him.

This is what Dean thinks on Valentine’s Day, after Cas has shown up with a pie from Missouri’s, awkwardly explaining that he didn’t know what to get Dean.

Dean, of course, didn’t get Cas anything, having assumed they wouldn’t be celebrating — after all, since that talk post-break, Cas hasn’t exactly reiterated that he likes Dean, or why he likes Dean, and he certainly hasn’t used the word _boyfriend,_ so Dean figures they’re not that kind of couple — so he decides, with absolutely no ulterior motives whatsoever, that he can make it up to Cas when they go park by the hiking trail after school. That’s usually what the recipient of Valentine’s day gifts does, right? It’s what crass jokes he’s heard his dad’s friends tell would have him believe, anyway.

Dean’s made frustratingly little progress, it feels like, although _whatever_ was going on with Cas, he seems way more on board now. Dean thinks — hopes — that if he can just get Cas alone in his room again for a decent block of time, there’s a good chance they’ll finally _get there._

On the other hand, this assumes Dean can even handle that, which while he definitely still wants to find out, a part of him half-expects to spontaneously combust before they _do_ get there.

Like now, for instance. They’re in the car, Dean doing his damndest to express his appreciation for the pie, and Cas seems pretty open to that if the way he’s pinning Dean to the front seat is any indication, rewarding Dean’s efforts with bruising kisses and gentle tugs at his hair.

It’s a little vexing, to be honest, because even though this is one of those things Dean counts as progress, Cas seems too preoccupied with kissing him to realize that the way he’s propped up on his elbows keeps their chests from coming into contact, and somehow. he’s climbed up onto the seat so that Dean’s legs are sort of twisted to the side and trapped in the footwell, far away from Cas’s. It would be about fifty times more comfortable — among other things — if Dean could just get his feet up on the seat and bend his knees, so Cas could settle between them, but every time he tries to move it’s like Cas just increases the pressure or does something highly distracting with his tongue.

In any case, this is pretty good, too, so Dean lets it slide.

It’s so good, in fact, that Dean’s seriously starting to rethink his stance on what is and isn’t okay to do inside the car, unable to stop himself from drawing his fingers down Cas’s ribs to just barely graze the skin beneath his waistband, when-

Cas suddenly pulls back, and Dean lets out a groan of frustration.

“What?” he pants, not bothering to keep the irritation out of his voice, because _come on._ “What is it?”

Cas blinks innocently down at him, and if he weren’t breathing just as hard as Dean, Dean would have to assume he was totally unaffected by what they were just doing.

“Oh, just — did you get taller?”

Dean stares. That’s . . . not exactly what he was expecting, and he’s a little surprised Cas noticed now, of all times. He was _hoping_ Cas would, was ecstatic when Dad measured a few weeks ago and he came in at about five-foot-eight, but — he’d rather Cas have noticed at lunch, or even when they were kissing in a classroom.

“Uh, yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, a little.”

Cas nods.

“You must be happy.” He smiles, idly stroking a finger down Dean’s temple, but doesn’t go back to kissing him.

Are . . . are they seriously gonna have a conversation now? Like, Dean loves talking to Cas, but — but-

“I am,” he says cautiously, and then Cas lifts himself up off of him. It’s not like they were really _that_ close, before, but Dean almost whines at the loss of heat.

Reluctantly, he pulls himself into a sitting position — apparently, they’re done with that part for today — and Cas slides closer, stretching his legs out over Dean’s knees and leaning against him.

That’s nice, at least.

Resigned, Dean lets his head drop to rest on top of Cas’s.

“Actually — my friends think you’ve gotten prettier, too.”

Dean’s first instinct is to object to the term ‘prettier,’ because he’s not a girl, even if he maybe has some girly features, but Cas doesn’t say it in a mocking way; he says it soft, gently, like it’s not a bad thing at all. Not to him, anyway.

In response, Dean lifts his head to look down at Cas, just to be sure.

“Oh, yeah? And what do you think?”

Cas just gives him one of those faint, mysterious smiles, and kisses him, slow and fond in a way that steals his breath.

“I think they’re right.”

So — yeah. Pretty’s not so bad, if it gets him this.

“Well,” he starts, going for cocky but coming out shy. “Stick around, Cas. There’s . . . probably . . . more where this came from.”

He gets a quiet laugh for that, and then Cas reaches for his hand and threads their fingers together. Things like this make Dean’s heart do some weird, clenching thing in his chest, and he suddenly finds himself thinking about what he just said, about the truth beneath the joke.

_Is_ Cas gonna stick around? Will Cas see how tall Dean ends up being? (Dean really, really hopes it’s taller than Cas. He can’t for the life of him explain why, though.) Will he be there for the end of Dean’s awkward phase, or if Dean’s just that unlucky and has a second one after that?

He reddens at the thought. He’s probably overthinking this, or just thinking too far ahead. And sure, that could all happen here in the next six months, because puberty is weird, but it could also take a couple more years, and — and yeah, that’s definitely thinking too far ahead.

Still, he can’t help but ask.

“So. You guys all graduate at the end of the year, huh?”

Cas nods, but doesn’t seem to have any other commentary.

“You going to college?” Dean asks, and Cas gives him a curious look.

“Yeah. KU.”

“Go Jayhawks,” Dean jokes, and Cas rolls his eyes. “You gonna commute from home, or . . .?”

“God, no. The entire point of going to college is to get away from my family, Dean.”

That’s fair, but it also means getting away from _Dean_.

He knows that’s not what Cas meant by it, though.

“I’ll probably go to KU, too,” he says, for lack of anything else, and starts kicking himself immediately after. That makes it seem like he’s telling Cas he’s gonna freaking _follow_ him, like he expects them to be together in two years, which — again, _way too far ahead._

Cas hums.

“I’ll let you know how it is, then.”

Oh. That’s — well, that almost sounds like Cas thinks this’ll still be happening after he’s at school, which . . .

Dean can’t help himself. He envisions taking Baby up to KU on the weekends, once he’s had enough driving hours with his license and John lets him have her. He’ll tell his Dad he’s going to tour the college and go to some parties to meet girls — Cas probably _will_ show him around, and might even take him to a party or two — but mostly they’ll just stay in Cas’s dorm all weekend, watching movies ( and fine, cuddling ) and kissing without worrying anybody but Cas’s roommate will walk in. Or maybe Cas will even somehow end up with a single, and they can do _whatever they want,_ a category Dean has a _lot_ of ideas about-

“Dean.”

Dean snaps back to the present, where Cas is looking at him, visibly amused.

“Y-yeah?”

“What were you thinking about?”

Dean coughs.

“Nothin’.”

“I see.”

Cas’s hand settles on the back of Dean’s neck, bringing him down for a kiss Dean can feel him smiling all the way through, and by the end of it, Dean’s grinning back.

“I think it’s probably time to go back,” Cas says, kissing him one more time before disentangling himself and moving over to the driver’s seat.

Dean’s tempted to protest, because Sam knows to just say he’s at Charlie’s if John asks, and Charlie knows to lie if he actually calls to check, although Dean doesn’t think he would. Still, Dean doesn’t like to leave Sam at home by himself for very long, and he’s not supposed to spend that much time at his friend’s houses anyway, so he doesn’t like to cash in on the excuse too often.

Besides; he feels really good about their talk. He’s glad Cas noticed his miniature growth spurt and decided to comment on it; the feeling Dean’s got now, warm and hopeful and _excited_ , is better than anything else he can imagine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential pressure: Dean is ready to be physically intimate with Cas in some way, but is continually frustrated by the way Cas, seeming oblivious, keeps to just-kissing with minimal body contact. He tries (non-verbally) to communicate his interest, and being repeatedly unsuccessful, his frustration grows; when Cas breaks a kiss to remark on something, Dean is somewhat irritable. To clarify, much of Dean’s frustration is based on the assumption that Cas is extremely comfortable with physical intimacy – he thought Cas would expect it of him – and that the trouble lies with Cas’s obliviousness; this is meant to be humorous, since as readers, you know that Cas is perfectly aware and is becoming quite frustrated himself as he desperately tries to manage the situation.
> 
> That said, regardless of what someone’s sexual experience or usual approach to relationships appears to be, there are any number of reasons why someone may not be ready for or interested in intimacy, and all of them are valid. Sex is never an obligation, and not reciprocating interest in it should never be met with frustrated or irritable behavior; Dean’s reactions may be more upsetting than funny to some of us, so please be prepared, and if the tone of these scenes does make you uncomfortable, I apologize.


	8. Part I: fuck it, here it comes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: brief reference to the danger of letting children go off alone (the news has made Dean worry about Sam going to the bathroom alone, but Sam successfully uses the bathroom without incident) (well, without that kind of incident, anyway), more implications/references to something like Bela’s canon backstory, though nothing is outright stated), the end note in the previous chapter still applies (i.e. lashing out when someone isn’t ready for intimacy is a problem, no matter how insecure you’re feeling), very brief mention of Dean/Lisa, please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> Here we go! I hope you're all well and staying safe, and thank you so much for reading! Please enjoy ♡

> _I was screaming at your door_
> 
> _Saying, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”_
> 
> _I thought that we were good enough_
> 
> _I thought that you had needed love . . ._
> 
> _\- Don’t Wanna Think, Julia Michaels_

The reality is, it was bound to catch up with him eventually.

No matter how adept Cas was at avoiding Dean’s bedroom, or arranging it so even when things _seem_ _ed_ to be intensifying during their other makeout sessions, he was, in fact, deescalating them — he couldn’t possibly keep it up forever.

And it was no mean feat, fending off Dean’s persistent, thorough, _increasingly_ skilled advances; it required an immense degree of focus, dedication, and sheer strength of will on Cas’s part, but nonetheless _—_ he persevered.

This time, though — this time, it’s a _trap._

You see, Cas _thinks_ he’s just going inside for a movie. He was very specifically promised a movie with Sam and Dean, and they’d even already decided on which one to watch. Dean’s father is going on a hunting trip with some of his buddies for the weekend, and so, the three of them unanimously decided to take advantage of his lengthy, guaranteed absence to begin _The Lord of the Rings._

Thus, those plans in mind, Cas tells his mother he’s going to a party with Bela, deliberately bypassing his jacket on its hook by the door on his way out, and then drives to Dean’s house sometime around seven, to leave them with plenty of time to finish the movie before Cas’s weekend curfew kicks in, but still not so much that Dean can try and maneuver him into scandalous exploits while Sam politely studies at the kitchen table and Cas ends up crossing lines he has no business crossing.

It ought to be a night like any other, right?

Except _Sam_ _isn’t_ _there._

“Where’s Sam?” he immediately asks, because Dean seemed a little odd when he answered the door, and now, Cas is pretty sure he knows why.

“Jess called,” Dean explains, as if that’s an explanation, and does this weird, shifty thing with his body, eyes not quite meeting Cas’s.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I told him — you know, we’ve got plans, and Cas has never seen it, but — I guess he really likes her, and he begged to go, and . . . I couldn’t say no.”

Cas believes that; he does. He’s seen Sam Winchester’s god-awful puppy-dog eyes and he knows that anyone with a human soul is incapable of denying him whatever he desires when it happens.

_That said._

He feels tricked.

“Oh. Uh, should I go?” he blurts out, not thinking, and Dean gives him an almost wounded look.

Cas stares back, feeling vaguely helpless.

“Well, I mean — we can still watch if you want.”

They _could,_ but Dean’s seen this movie many times and, more importantly, they’ll have to sit next to each other on the sofa while they watch it, except Sam won’t _be_ there, and Cas-

Cas remembers _vividly_ what happened last time they were alone on that sofa, were alone in the _house_ , and he’s pretty sure he can’t afford to let it happen again.

“Sam seemed excited to watch it,” he points out, and Dean nods, like he was expecting that.

“Yeah, no, you’re right. We should wait.”

Honestly, Cas is a little disappointed; he had kind of been looking forward to tonight, but it can’t be helped. Perhaps they’ll have time tomorrow.

“Well, then-”

“You wanna go to my room?” Dean asks suddenly. “Charlie loaned me this CD I kinda thought you’d like.”

Which — no. No, Cas doesn’t want to go to Dean’s room. Cas is fairly certain he knows _exactly_ what will happen if he goes to Dean’s room right now, with not another soul in the house to use as an excuse for the thing not happening, and in light of that, Dean’s room must be avoided _at all cost._

“Uhh,” he stalls, but Dean seems to interpret it as acquiescence.

“C’mon,” he says, and turns toward the hall. Cas walks after him, dread crawling over his skin, along with some kind of hot, tingly feeling he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

Dean gestures for him to sit on the bed while he pops the CD in the boom box, and there’s some kind of static interference, followed by a muffled voice and old-fashioned sort of instrumental, like an old recording of something.

“Who’s this?” he asks faintly, Dean coming to sit next to him on the bed. Cas is trying his best to keep calm, but there’s something different about how Dean’s moving, something _deliberate,_ and Cas isn’t sure how he’s going to handle what it will inevitably lead to.

The introduction ends, and Cas jumps slightly as the fast-paced tune that immediately follows begins.

“They’re called _P_ _anic!_ _A_ _t_ _T_ _he_ _Di_ _sco_. Charlie heard ‘em when she went to see _The Academy Is_.”

“That’s an odd name. Actually, both of those are odd names.” Apart from the mixtape, tucked in Anna’s old Walkman and safely stored in his nightstand drawer, Cas hasn’t listened to a lot of music lately; it’s difficult, what with his parents, and he hasn’t spent as much time with friends.

Dean huffs a laugh.

“Yeah, it kinda is.”

Cas is about to comment, to say he likes it, to say it’s probably fun to dance to — _anything_ to keep the conversation going — but he doesn’t get the words out. Dean slides closer and covers Cas’s mouth with his own, and then he wastes no time deepening the kiss, hand slipping into Cas’s hair.

Of course, Cas instinctively kisses back, even as he struggles to think of what to do, of some way to get out of this; if he pushes Dean away now, then more likely than not, Dean will realize Cas has been deliberately avoiding this situation for a reason. He needs to figure out how to keep it innocent — at least, _mostly_ innocent — and then maneuver them toward cuddling, or ‘remember’ a reason he suddenly needs to leave, like he usually does when things get too intense for comfort.

So he carefully returns the kiss, letting his hands settle on Dean’s waist, and tries to think of what that reason will be, should he end up needing it.

But after a few minutes, Dean brings _his_ hands down, pushing them up under Cas’s shirt, and Cas has no choice but to let him, desperately trying to ignore the way his thumbs move in circles across sensitive skin, palms warm against Cas’s stomach.

Dean drags his mouth away.

“Cas,” he mutters, impatient. “Touch me.”

Cas has no idea what to say to that, but Dean doesn’t seem to expect him to, just kisses him again, tongue sliding with disturbing expertise against Cas’s own. Hesitant, Cas starts working his hands up Dean’s sides, stroking lightly over his ribs while he tries to determine if this is one of the times where it’s better to maneuver Dean onto his back so he can actually hover _further_ away from him without it being obvious.

He doesn’t get a chance to decide; Dean suddenly grips Cas’s hips for balance and swings his leg over, straddling Cas’s lap and pushing him back on the bed without even breaking the kiss, because _apparently,_ Cas has created a monster.

This is — this really, _really_ cannot go on. Cas can’t handle it, but he’s not sure how to stop it, either, and to make matters worse, he’s starting to get distracted by what Dean is doing instead of coming up with a plan to disengage.

And then — Dean starts _shifting_.

Cas grabs his hips to keep him still, kissing him hard as he does so in the hopes that Dean won’t notice he’s effectively blocked his range of motion, and to his relief, it _work_ _s._

For about ten seconds, that is, because after that, there’s suddenly a hand on his belt, Dean’s knuckles brushing over the skin above it, and Cas — Cas panics.

He breaks the kiss, frantically batting Dean’s hands away.

“What?” Dean demands, eyes accusing, and Cas blinks back, struggling for air.

“Dean — you — Sam! What if Sam comes home? He could — he could walk in!”

Dean frowns, leaning down again.

“Let him. He can walk back out. I don’t care; I want you.”

Cas flinches — he can’t help himself, this is a special kind of torture and if he thought long and hard about it, he might conclude he deserves it, but _for right now_. . .

Dean pauses, looking uncertain.

“Don’t you — want me?”

And yes, Cas is one-hundred-percent, _definitely_ going to hell.

“Of course,” he protests, and thinks it’s a little true. Maybe a lot true. Cas doesn’t even know anymore. “I just. I don’t think we should — be hasty.”

Dean sits back, the motion creating pressure in unfortunate places, which Cas valiantly tries to ignore. He’s trying to _defuse_ the situation, damn it.

“So . . . what? You wanna — like, wait?”

“Yes!” Cas agrees enthusiastically. That sounds like an excellent plan. That’s not a _no, Dean, I don’t want you,_ but it’s not a _let’s do this,_ either.

Dean doesn’t seem to share his views.

“Why? I mean, I know you usually don’t, that — that you have, uh, experience.”

Cas swallows.

“Right, but — _you_ don’t so-”

“So teach me.”

Like it’s the obvious solution. And it _is_ , or it would be, except — Cas _can’t._ He can’t do that. It crosses a line he’s not willing to cross, and he doesn’t even mean the legal one, because the state of Kansas wouldn’t bat an eye now that Dean’s birthday is past. And even if this _were_ a totally normal relationship, even if Cas had whatever feelings you were supposed to, when you were actually dating someone — it’d still be Dean’s first. _Cas_ would be Dean’s first, and Cas — Cas isn’t completely confident he _is_ ready for that.

He doesn’t know how to explain any of that, though, not even to himself.

“But I — isn’t this enough, for now?”

Dean searches his eyes for a long moment, and he must read Cas’s guilt and fear there, because his face hardens.

“You don’t want me.” There’s no doubt in his voice, no unspoken request for Cas to argue.

Dean believes that, much more so than he ever believed Cas _did_.

Cas shakes his head.

“No, Dean, I just-”

“Shut up.”

Dean moves off him, moves _away_ from him, refusing to meet his eyes.

Cas lurches upright, stomach in his shoes.

“Dean-”

“Just _go,_ Cas, for God’s sake!” Dean snaps. “Get _out!”_

Cas doesn’t want to go. He feels sick and cold all over, and he wants to explain everything to Dean in a way that will make everything okay, will make things just — just stay the way they were, but there _is_ no way.

He reaches out, hoping Dean will at least let him try, but Dean jerks back and when he looks up, there’s fury there; there’s also hurt, a hurt that cuts at something deep within Cas, but mostly, there’s just anger.

If Dean _does_ decide to hear him out, it won’t be tonight.

And so-

Cas leaves.

Cas freaking _leaves._

Dean’s not sure _what_ he was expecting, but he was expecting _something_. He was expecting Cas to _try._ Even if Cas doesn’t want Dean — and the thought leaves him starkly ashamed and devastated all over again, because up until five minutes ago, he was pretty positive Cas did — Cas is his friend, and he’s a good person. Dean didn’t think he’d just go _oh, well_ and walk out like that.

But he did, and Dean’s alone and humiliated and this kind of rejection stings worse than any actual cut he’s ever received, and there’s nothing for it but to crawl into bed and cry.

Which is really goddamn pathetic, and ends up making him feel worse instead of better.

After about twenty minutes of that, he calls Charlie.

“This is your Queen speaking, how may I assist you?”

Involuntarily, Dean lets out a loud, wet sniffle, and there’s a few second of silence.

“Dean?”

“Charlie,” he answers pitifully, and there’s a sad squeak on the other end of the line.

“Dean, what happened?”

“He — he doesn’t want me.”

“What do you mean, he doesn’t want you? Did he say that?”

“He didn’t have to.” Dean’s not sure he could have handled it, if Cas had actually said it. “He said we should _wait,_ because I didn’t have experience, and when I called him on it — if you’d just seen his face, Charlie . . .”

“Oh. Oh, no. But — but, Dean, are you sure? Because we’ve all seen Cas with you, and we can tell how much he likes you — he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the entire world! He could be — maybe he’s just really worried about pushing you.”

“I _told_ him — Charlie, I’ve been makin’ it clear for weeks that I’m ready. If anything, I’ve been pushing _him.”_

“Just because someone thinks they’re ready doesn’t always mean they are-”

“But I _am_ -”

“And _maybe_ Cas is human and sometimes has his head up his butt . Listen, Dean, have you ever heard of Cas actually _dating_ someone?”

Dean sniffs again. Christ, he doesn’t even remember the last time he cried. Freakin’ _Cas._

“What’s that gotta do with anything?”

“Um, everything, maybe. Probably. Dean — what if you’re the first person he’s ever liked? Like, _really_ liked? If you were him — wouldn’t you be scared of screwing it up?”

Dean frowns. He’d never thought of that, that someone like _him_ could really be that special to someone like Cas, especially compared to all the people Cas has probably met, has probably _been_ with.

“We — we don’t know that I am. And if that’s true, he needs to _say_ so! I’m not a mind reader! He’s my first-” Dean hesitates, not sure what word to use, and ultimately decides to skip it altogether. “I have no clue what I’m doing!”

“Neither does he, Dean. And did you give him a chance to explain himself?”

“He just left, Charlie! Just — walked out, when I confronted him!”

Charlie knows him too well, though.

“Uh-huh. You didn’t, by any chance, tell him to leave, did you?”

“I — I didn’t think he’d actually _do_ it!”

She lets out a heavy sigh.

“Oh, Dean. Did it never occur to you that _maybe,_ just maybe, some people are as afraid and insecure as you? Which, I know, sounds impossible, but there it is.”

“But he’s Castiel Novak,” Dean mumbles sullenly, ignoring her snark.

“Yeah, and he’s also probably in love. With _you_. That makes him an idiot, too.”

Dean forgets to breathe for a second.

_He’s also probably in love. With you._

There’s no way, and he tells Charlie as much. She huffs.

“Look, you could be right! Maybe he doesn’t want you. But the way he acts around you, Dean, how he looks at you, how he talks to you, all that stuff — that’s not how somebody behaves if they don’t at least care about you a lot. And I know you care right back. So before you freak out, and before you go into a tailspin deciding you’re unworthy or something stupid like that, maybe you should talk to him. Just — listen. Give him a chance. I think he might surprise you.”

Dean doesn’t want to. He really, really doesn’t, because there’s every possibility that if he does, he’s just going to hear _No_ all over again.

But if he _doesn’t,_ there’s also a good chance he’s not going to hear anything from Cas ever again, _at all._

And that — that hurts a lot worse than the thought of rejection.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Yeah. I can do that.”

“Good. In the meantime, _don’t worry,_ okay? You’re just torturing yourself.”

He agrees, even though they both know he won’t be able to help it, and after Charlie’s hung up, he settles in to watch TV until Sam gets home.

When Sam asks, he says Cas had to leave early. There’s no way he can tell Sam just how badly things went, and even if he could, he doesn’t want to.

He’s hoping, even though he knows better, that tomorrow, it won’t matter anymore.

Cas sleeps, but not very well, and when he wakes up, his stomach is in knots.

He wonders if he should try calling Dean. Dean probably didn’t sleep any better than Cas did, if his reaction last night was anything to go by. Dean is also probably still incredibly pissed, but the sooner Cas can explain himself, the better.

Then again, even if Dean _has_ cooled off enough to answer the phone . . . Cas still isn’t sure what that explanation will be.

His first instinct is to just tell Dean that he really likes him, and explain how afraid he is they’ll do something Dean regrets afterward.

But last night wasn’t a whim for Dean; whatever elaborate speech Cas is able to concoct on the subject, Dean’s going to argue vehemently against it. Cas _could_ lie and say he felt terrible and ashamed the first time he did something like that, but unless he wants to go for broke and invent a slew of stereotypical daddy issues, it’ll be hard to explain away all the fun he’s had since — fun which everyone at school is well aware of.

The other option, of course, is to flat out tell Dean he loves him; to say he’s so in love with Dean, that he’s never felt this way before, and because this isn’t like any of his other experiences, _he’s_ the one who’s afraid to go further. He could tell Dean he feels — scared, and maybe a little broken, and that it matters, with Dean, in a way it never did; that he needs time to trust that taking that step won’t irreparably damage their relationship and cause Dean to flit out of his life like everyone else before him.

That’s probably the better option, but — as much as Cas _thinks_ Dean really likes him, might even be close to returning that false sentiment of love, he’s not confident Dean would believe that.

The thing is, Cas is not a great liar. It’s easy for him to encourage a misconception he doesn’t directly create, but telling specific, outright lies can get tricky, especially when it comes to things he wouldn’t normally say, even if they were the truth; in some ways, it’s a blessing Dean _doesn’t_ talk about feelings, because if Bela and Crowley had picked a target prone to gushing, Cas doubts he could have convincingly responded in kind.

Option two is exactly the kind of lie Cas hates telling. It is a serious and emotional lie, and even if every bit of it was heartfelt reality, he’d still be uncomfortable explaining it. And while it’s true that Cas has never felt this way before — confused and guilty and surprisingly attached, a worrisome complication — the rest of it is going to be difficult to get out.

He doesn’t really have a choice, though, does he?

Which is, perhaps, the true source of his dread. This is — well, this is _it._ This is where Cas can no longer just _go along_ with things, where he has to make an active choice to continue it. He’s done a decent job of living in the present, so to speak, but there are certain things that this will make it impossible to ignore.

Namely — the end of the bet.

Talking with Dean about college plucked at his conscience, a little, but it also got him thinking — hoping, really. Maybe Dean _would_ still be in his life, if he went to college. Even if he only started dating Dean for the bet, he’s kind of grown to enjoy his company. And i t’s embarrassing, but there was a type of affection Cas thinks he might have desperately been missing in his life, and Dean provides it, like it’s no big deal. Except Dean did that before they were dating, when they were just friends, so p erhaps — perhaps it would be possible to _still_ be friends with Dean after it all ends. It’s not like Dean has to know about the bet, right? So Cas could — if there was just a way he could go back to being friends with Dean, everything would be perfect.

But that’s just naive, isn’t it? In order to win the bet, Dean needs to be in love with him, and he needs to say it. When in the history of ever could you step back from a relationship with someone who was in love with you and still be friends? Certainly, all those hugs Cas not-that-secretly enjoys getting would come to a stop. All affectionate touching would have to be put on hold, while they tried to reestablish the boundaries of their relationship.

Even if Cas decided to turn his nose up at the two-fucking-grand and drop out of the bet right now, undoing the romantic development of his and Dean’s relationship would be next to impossible.

So, no, he realizes. He and Dean probably won’t be friends afterward, because he’ll have to break up with Dean, and friendships don’t usually survive that.

Cas doesn’t like that answer.

He supposes — he could _keep_ dating Dean, couldn’t he? His friends might never let him hear the end of it, but that way, Cas could still be friends with Dean, and — well, Dean’s become extremely adept at kissing, so it’s not like that’s any kind of _chore._ Cas wouldn’t even have to feel as bad about it, once the bet was over and he were genuinely committed to being Dean’s boyfriend. And the shine of a new skill is bound to wear off, isn’t it? Pretty soon, they’ll become a boring couple who just — snuggles and watches movies. Sure, Cas won’t be able to see other people, but he can probably handle that. If he can just circumvent the sex issue until he goes to college, at which point Dean might not even want to do a longterm relationship, then maybe — _maybe_ -

But wait — if they amicably dissolve the relationship, then Dean probably won’t come to visit him at college. He _might,_ but he probably won’t. And Bela and Crowley are going to school in England, which just leaves Gabe. And he’s very fond of Gabe, sure, but — it would be nice to have someone else; someone he could sit and be quiet with; someone he could talk to about things; someone who knew when he needed a hug and would give him one without having to make fun of him or tell dirty jokes in his ear the whole time.

It would be especially nice, Cas can’t help but think, if he could count on that someone being Dean.

But if they’re just going to break up and Dean’s going to move on, anyway, then . . .

Well, none of it’s ideal.

Cas’s phone buzzes, then, and he snatches it out from underneath his pillow to answer.

“Yes?” he says, desperate. “Dean? Hello?”

There’s a long pause.

“Is there perhaps something I should know, Castiel?” Bela drawls, although there’s a light threat to the words.

He freezes.

“. . . No? Just — usually Dean calls on this phone.”

“Fascinating. And is it that you _always_ answer like that?”

“Yes?”

“As if — and this is just a guess, of course — you did something _wrong,_ and you were concerned you wouldn’t hear from him?”

Cas sighs, and there’s an outraged sort of huff.

“I _thought_ so,” she hisses. “You’ve been quiet about this for what feels like weeks now; I just _knew_ you were mucking it up.”

“I’m not-”

“Oh, save it. We’re going to _talk_ about this, and then we’re going to devise a way to _salvage_ it, and then you’re going to stop messing about and _seal the deal_ , alright?”

“Alright,” he mutters. It’s not like he really has a choice, here.

“But first — and the reason I called — we’re all going to Missouri’s for breakfast because Gabe and Crowley are recovering from hangovers, and _apparently,_ greasy diner food is the only remedy. Which, frankly, is _baffling_ , but I suppose there’s nothing for it. You and I can discuss this afterward.”

“Okay. When?”

“Eleven. And Cas?”

“Hm?”

“Whatever’s going on in Winchester Land, pretend it’s nothing. Crowley’s a shark; if he thinks we’re losing, he’ll do everything he can to make sure we do. Are we clear?”

Despite the temptation to hang up, Cas grumbles his assent, and then he reluctantly goes to put pants on.

Dad left them a twenty for groceries and/or an emergency, even though Dean doesn’t really think it works that way, and Sam, clearly sensing Dean’s mood, suggests they forgo the groceries and go to the diner for brunch. Dean has a little money left from birthday gifts — he can’t _wait_ till Dad decides he’s capable of handling part-time at Bobby’s shop in addition to school and football — for anything over, and it’s a pretty nice day out, so Dean figures — why not?

Brunch or not, though, he’s still ordering a burger.

Pam’s not on shift until the evening, which is a bummer, but Layla seats them with a warm smile and a comforting shoulder pat each, and they settle in a cozy booth on the other side of the big divider running down the room. Dean would rather sit by the window, but it’s almost eleven on a Saturday and he’s just glad they didn’t have to wait for the table they did get.

“Sooo,” Sam starts, fiddling with his napkin. It’ll be a while till their food arrives, but Dean makes a note to remind him to actually put it in his lap before he eats. “How are things going with Cas?”

“Uh. They’re . . . going.”

Sam nods.

“Sorry I bailed to hang out with Jess.”

“That’s okay.”

Sam’s expression is doing a weird, uncomfortable-hesitant thing.

“Yeah? Like . . . how long did Cas stay?”

“Not long,” Dean answers shortly, and Sam frowns.

“Oh. Did you watch the movie without me?”

“Nah, Cas didn’t want to.”

Sam looks a little cheered by this, though he’s clearly confused by Dean’s behavior.

“Well, maybe next time?”

Dean sighs.

“Maybe.”

They’re quiet for a minute, and the fidgeting gets worse.

“Um. Did something happen?”

“Nope,” Dean shoots back, ending the word with a _pop._ “I told you, he didn’t stick around.”

Sam’s frown deepens, and the corner of the napkin he’s been twisting tears off.

“I’m not dumb,” he says suddenly, setting it down. “I know when you say you’re going to go ‘hang out’ in your room you guys just kiss and stuff.”

Dean snorts, too tired to get embarrassed, because he knows Sam’s not dumb, and at almost twelve, yeah, he probably _does_ know what that means.

Except while he and Cas do plenty of kissing, Cas is _apparently_ not interested in doing ‘stuff’ with him.

“Yeah, genius, we do. What about it?”

“Um, well, I guess I thought — you know, since Dad was gonna be gone and since Jess wanted me to come over, you guys would probably do _that_.”

Dean nearly chokes. What does he mean by ‘that’? Is his eleven-year-old brother _seriously_ asking him if-

“Do _what_?”

Sam gives him a funny look.

“Go kiss in your room.”

Oh. Oh, Sammy meant — like, the emphasis was to refer back to — oh.

Dean breathes a quiet sigh of relief. He knows at some point, somebody must have given Sam The Talk — probably Bobby or Ellen or even Ms. Mills — but even if the kid knows what’s what, Dean sure as hell doesn’t wanna discuss it with him.

He’s apparently taking too long to chill back out because Sam’s started giving him the stink-eye.

“ _Ew,_ Dean, don’t do that in the _house_!”

 _Where the hell else am I gonna do it?_ he almost asks, but refrains.

“Oh, my _God,_ Sammy, please shut up. I didn’t, and even if I did, I don’t wanna talk about it with my kid brother!”

“Good, ‘cause I don’t wanna hear about it!” Sam retorts, clearly still offended.

Dean sighs.

“Ugh. Know what? Let’s talk about something else instead. Tell me about Jess. How’d that go?”

Sam is still eyeing him suspiciously.

“Well, not like you and Cas did.”

“Hey, I told you we didn’t-”

“ _Anyway,_ we’re too young to date like that. Her mom said so, and I agree.” Sam looks down, a little forlorn. “I don’t think Jess does, though.”

Dean perks up at that, worried.

“This Jess chick ain’t pressuring you or anything, right?”

“ _No,_ Dean. She’s not. It’s just . . . sometimes Jess holds my hand, which is okay, ‘cause friends can do that, too, but last night when we went outside to look at Polaris, I — I, um, I think she was gonna . . .”

Sam trails off, squirming in his seat, but Dean’s pretty sure he knows how it ends.

“Kiss you?” he supplies helpfully, and Sam turns beet red.

“Yeah. But her mom said — and I don’t think I’m ready to kiss girls yet.”

“What about boys?” Dean teases, but Sam just gives him a serious look.

“Boys, either.”

It makes Dean smile, because Sam’s prepared for anything, apparently. Well, as long as it happens in the future.

“I see. So, what? You don’t know how to let her down gently?”

His brother’s expression turns miserable.

“I really _like_ Jess, she’s like my best friend now. We have almost all our classes together, you know? And she’s really cute, too, but -”

“But you’re not ready for that.”

“No! Am I supposed to be?”

Dean smirks.

“No, you’re eleven. And anyway, it doesn’t work like that. Remember how long it took Bobby and Ellen to get together?”

Sam squints at him, and it occurs to Dean that maybe he doesn’t.

“I think. They used to live in different places, right? Aunt Ellen lived above the Roadhouse?”

“Yeah. They did that for like, years, even though they both had feelings the whole time. It’s ‘cause sometimes, no matter how old you are, you’re just not ready — even if you both really like each other.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“That makes sense.” He’s glad Sam understands; back when Ellen did live above the Roadhouse, and Bobby’d sit and drink in her bar every night, Dean would keep him company after school a lot of days. Ostensibly, it was so Bobby could keep an eye on him, but Dean has always wondered if it was the other way around. Anyway, Dean thought Bobby looked at Ellen like his dad sometimes looked at old pictures of Mom, and he finally asked why Bobby didn’t just live at the Roadhouse with Ellen and Jo.

Bobby’d basically had this same conversation with him, except Dean didn’t really get it until much later.

Anyway, Sam is staring hard at his plate, brows furrowed, clearly still thinking this over.

“So — should I tell her that?”

“Sure.”

“Is she going to be mad at me?”

Dean makes a face.

“I mean, maybe?”

“What if she decides she likes somebody else?”

“Then you gotta let her. I never said it was easy.”

Sam buries his face in his arms.

“This sucks. Why do people do this?”

“Right? I hear ya, man.” Still, he wishes it were as simple as it was when he was Sam’s age. Sam’ll probably be legitimately hurt if Jess just finds a new crush to try her moves on, but he’ll get over it fast.

“Okay,” Sam finally says. “I’ll tell her. Hopefully she’ll still be my friend, at least.”

Dean bites back a smile. Poor Sammy, eleven-years-old and giving a girl the let’s-just-be-friends talk.

“Even if she isn’t for a little while, she probably will be later.”

Sam looks cheered by that thought, and Dean pats himself on the back because he’s a totally awesome big brother.

And then suddenly, Sam straightens.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he announces, which, okay, that’s fair; Dean starts to get up, too, because late night television sometimes runs really scary programs that tell him he shouldn’t let kids go to the bathroom by themselves, but Sam stops him.

“No!” he says quickly. “I’m not a little kid-” uh, yes, yes he is, “-I can go to the bathroom by myself. You — you should wait and make sure they don’t accidentally give our table away, okay?”

Sam flees to the bathroom without waiting for a response, and as Dean resettles into his seat, his phone slides out of his pocket and into the dark underbelly that is the space beneath a diner table. He’s been trying to keep it close just in case Cas decides to call, but so far, there’s been nothing.

Sighing, he leans forward, reaching with his hand but not making contact, which sadly means he’s going to have to stick his _head_ under there. Who knows what kind of germy shit people leave on the bottom of the table? He loves Pam, and Layla, and everybody else who works here — mostly — but he neither thinks nor expects them to wipe the underside after every guest.

In the end, he has to get on his knees to reach the phone, which skittered all the way over to Sam’s side. He hopes it’s not broken; if John comes back from his trip and Dean’s cell has become a fancy-looking paperweight, he doesn’t even want to think about what he’ll do.

He’s just about to slip back up into his seat when, to his shock, he hears _Cas_.

Which — what the hell?

“I’ll have the number eight,” Cas says, and once he’s spoken, Dean hears the rest of his friends order, Bela and Crowley’s accented voices unmistakable.

Okay; okay, cool. Cas halfway broke Dean’s heart and instead of calling Dean to talk about it or, you know, explain himself, he’s going to breakfast with his friends. Awesome.

(On the other hand, Dean’s going to breakfast with Sammy. Maybe Charlie’s right and Cas just did what he did because he cares a lot and he’s afraid; in that case, his friends could have taken him out to cheer him up, right?)

Dean stays ducked low, uncertain. Should he say something to Cas? Or should he just get back in his seat and see if Cas notices, and let Cas decide if it’s time to talk? But the divider is pretty tall, and Cas might not be able to see him. He’s bound to notice Sam once Sam comes back from the bathroom, isn’t he? Well,. unless he’s wrapped up in his conversation . . .

“So, it’s nearing the end of the week. Did you make progress with Winchester?”

Crowley sounds amused, in a mean kind of way Dean really doesn’t care for. Even if he _is_ Cas’s friend, it’s none of his business how Dean and Cas’s relationship is progressing, especially if he’s going to ask like _that._

Dean hopes Cas usually just ignores questions like these.

“Castiel?” he hears Bela prompt, a strange note of steel in her voice, but then he’s briefly distracted by Layla walking by. She’s giving him a funny look, and Dean’s afraid she’ll blow his cover, so he holds a finger up in the universal _sh_ gesture. After a beat, she smiles and keeps walking.

There’s more silence, and then a chorus of ‘oohs’ and what sounds like somebody’s back being slapped.

“Yowza, Cassie, look at that mark! You didn’t tell us Deano was a vampire!”

Dean’s sure he’s never blushed harder, or faster, in his life. He knows for a fact that the hickey he gave Cas in the car after school on Thursday was below and off-to-the-side of even the loosest of Cas’s t-shirt collars. Did Cas _seriously_ just _show_ them? What the _hell_?

“See, Crowley?” Bela sing-songs, sounding smug. “Just because he’s taking his time doesn’t mean he’s not making progress. I believe you owe him this week’s hundred.”

Something cold and heavy settles in Dean’s gut, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he parses her words. He’s starting to feel the ache from hunching over like this, but he can’t be bothered to care when it feels like his insides are collapsing.

Crowley . . . owes Cas — this week’s hundred? What does _that_ mean?

“Fine,” Crowley snaps. “Here’s your money. But I’d like to _remind_ you that if Dean doesn’t say he’s in love with you by graduation, you’re out of luck. And unless you changed your mind about sleeping with him, I’m not sure what _progress_ you still have to make.”

“We’re aware,” Bela responds, because she doesn’t know that Dean is crouched on the other side of the divider, eyes beginning to sting while it feels like the whole fucking world ends. “He’ll get his confession, and you’ll owe me. Just wait.”

“Dean?”

Dean whips his head up, eyes wide and blurring and oh, _no,_ he can’t cry now, he _can’t,_ if they know he’s here and they see him-

Sam stares down at him, confused.

“Dude, what are you doing?”

Shit. _Shit._ If he were the kind of cool badass he’d always hoped to be, Dean would sit up like nothing had happened, would eat his brunch and ignore the bastards on the other side of the divider — ignore Cas, who apparently never — who all along was just -

He’d ignore them, and then he’d leave, and in the meantime, they could all sit and stew in their own goddamned discomfort.

But he’s not a cool badass and this isn’t a movie and he seriously feels like someone took one of the flimsy diner butter knives and started hacking away at his chest with it, and apparently Cas _did_ notice Sammy come back from the bathroom because now he’s peering over the divider, eyes wide and expression twisted with panic.

“Dean?” he whispers, horror plain on his face. Behind him, Crowley and Bela are craning their necks, and Gabe is outright standing on the booth to peer over his shoulder.

Dean straightens, face burning, praying he doesn’t look half as pitiful as he feels. But all the faces are blurring, and he can feel himself shaking all over, and he knows it’s obvious what this is doing to him.

“Hey, Cas,” he manages. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He blinks, and his vision clears a little. Beside him, Sam’s looking upset, something anxious creeping in as he glances between them.

“Dean,” Cas starts, white-knuckled where he grips the divider. “Dean, what you just heard-”

“Yeah, no, I, uh, I don’t think you can really spin this one, man.”

“No — you don’t understand-”

And that’s freaking rich. After what Dean just heard — what he very _clearly_ heard — after he had to hear from freaking _Crowley_ that he’s not crazy, that Cas was deliberately fending off his advances-

A wave of humiliation crashes through him, and with it comes anger. He gets to his feet.

“Oh, shut up, Cas. I’m not an idiot; I understand just fine. You’ve been — what, stringing me along this whole time, so you and your friends can have a good laugh? Is that it?”

There’s still this crushing weight pressing in on him from all sides, and he’s probably making a scene right now, but the anger feels good; the anger is drying out the tears and fueling his tongue, and he needs it, or else he’s just going to fall apart right here, presumably while Cas and his friends watch him and laugh.

“I — I admit, that — isn’t _not_ what’s been happening, but I also-” Cas tries, looking deeply pained, his face red, and Dean’s glad. Dean’s glad if this is embarrassing for him, if Cas wasn’t prepared for shit to go down like this. He freaking _deserves_ it, and worse.

“You also _what,_ Cas? What the hell comes after that? You — this _whole time,_ you’ve just been — actually, you’re freaking insane, you know that? Who the hell _does_ that? It’s been months, you asshole! What kind of psychopaths are you people, if that’s your idea of _fun_?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Layla emerge with their order. She stops, freezing for a few seconds, and then goes back inside.

“I . . .” Cas looks like he’s in shock, and he clearly doesn’t know what to say — which makes sense, because what _can_ he say? He’s apparently been screwing around with Dean’s feelings and laughing about it with his friends for months — and he’s been getting _paid_ to do it. “Dean, I know — you’re right. You’re absolutely right, it was — it was a shitty thing to do, but I swear I-”

“You swear you _what_? Are you seriously about to look me in the eye and try to give me some bullshit reason why it’s not as bad as I think? You know, I _knew it,_ when you first came up and talked to me, I knew you were bad news and there was no goddamn reason for you to keep hanging around. I freaking _said_ so, I told all my friends it didn’t make sense and you had to have some other reason, and you know what? It looks like I was _right!_ ”

“Dean, I didn’t — I shouldn’t have accepted the bet, but — I never intended for you to find out! I didn’t mean to hurt you with it!”

Dean stares. And stares some more, and then he almost laughs, because holy _shit,_ Cas is crazier than he thought.

“What did you _think_ was going to happen? That I was gonna confess my feelings and — and you were gonna just go, “Actually, nevermind,” and I’d be like, “Oh, okay, cool, no hard feelings, buddy!’?”

Somebody nearby snorts, and Cas’s expression crumples a little.

“Well, no, I — I just thought-”

“Nah, Cas, I really don’t think you did. See, _I_ think you didn’t give a shit, and you just hung around playing games and collecting your money without giving a damn thought to what would happen after!”

“That’s not true!” Cas cries. “I — I do care, Dean, and I may have lied, but it wasn’t _all_ a lie; I truly consider you my friend, and-”

“ _Shut up!_ ” Dean snaps, because he doesn’t want to hear that. He doesn’t want to have to stand here and listen while Cas tells _more_ lies, tries to somehow salvage his stupid bet. He’s a fucking moron if he thinks he can salvage _anything_ where Dean is concerned. “Stop — stop _lying,_ Cas! I know it’s gotta be downright habit at this point, but quit! You don’t care. You don’t care, and you’re not my friend. And maybe — maybe your friends are so shitty and awful that you’re just lonely and pathetic enough to _believe_ you actually care, but I promise you, you don’t. Because if you did, if you cared, if you had a shred of decency in your goddamn soul, we wouldn’t be here now. You had months, you had _countless_ opportunities to change your mind, to back out of your dumb b et and tell me the freakin’ truth, and you passed every one of ‘em by. And you as good as said you _never_ would have told me if you hadn’t got caught.” He shakes his head. “So, _no,_ Cas. You don’t care. I doubt you could if you tried.”

Cas’s face is dead white now, and his friends are staring at the table, discomfort all over their faces. The rest of the diner, of course, is silent, and as Dean comes back to himself, shame rushes in with it.

His vision starts to swim again, all that hurt and embarrassment surging back with a vengeance.

Layla’s been waiting, apparently, and sensing that Dean has reached a stopping point, steps forward to hand Sam a little white carryout bag.

Dean can see a slice of pie he didn’t order perched on top.

“I think you boys should get home now so you can enjoy your meal in peace, don’t you?” she says gently, sympathy bright in her eyes, and Dean supposes he should just be glad they know him well enough here to not literally throw them out.

He nods, mumbles his thanks, and turns back to the divider. Cas is still staring at him, wide-eyed and pale.

“See you around, Cas. And thanks,” he adds, bitterness making him spiteful. “For not — what was it? — ‘changing your mind about sleeping with me.’ I mean, a hundred bucks a week — I’m surprised you didn’t.”

With that, Dean storms out, not even caring that he basically just confirmed for the whole diner what the fight was about. John might hear about it, and he might not; Dean can, and he’s sure he will, worry about it later, but for now . . .

“Asshole!” he hears Sam yell back, and for a glorious second, surprise washes out all the other feelings, a small, proud smile crossing his face.

But then it’s gone, and it’s just Sam and him, biking home in silence. The cold air bites at Dean’s damp cheeks, and he feels a lot smaller and sadder now that he’s not yelling at Cas.

Because now that Dean’s stuck with his thoughts, all he can think about is the last few months he spent with him, about everything Cas said and did, and how all of it was one big lie — one big _joke,_ told at Dean’s expense.

It still doesn’t feel real, but it is, and Dean takes back what he thought earlier; even if he were still eleven, he’s pretty sure this would hurt just as bad.

Cas is lying in bed, like he has since he got back from the diner. Nobody said much, after Dean left; there wasn’t much to say.

His thoughts have been going in circles all day, running over all the things Dean said to him, _about_ him, and now that he’s not in the middle of a restaurant, dozens of people staring as he’s confronted with Dean’s harsh words — Dean himself watching Cas, angry and hurt, _so_ hurt, green eyes bright with what Cas is afraid were actually _tears —_ he thinks of what to say. He thinks of a hundred things to say, even, but he doesn’t pick up his phone, doesn’t even look at it, because even if Dean answers, nothing Cas has to say is good enough.

Dean was right about everything, after all. Except for the part where he said Cas didn’t care. Cas — Cas _did_ care — _does_ care. He’s sure he cares.

 _You’re just lonely and pathetic enough to actually_ believe _you care._

But that’s not it, is it? Now that he’s pretty sure Dean will never speak to him again, Cas is realizing that maybe he was lonely, and probably pathetic, too, but he’s still capable of caring. He cares a lot, he’s sure. Even if — even if he should have told Dean sooner, or just given up on the bet altogether, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t actually have feelings.

And if he didn’t have feelings, would he feel this way now? Because right now, he feels an overwhelming weight, something akin to grief, that immobilizes him and leaves him aching.

He _does_ care. He _does,_ and what’s more, he wishes he knew how to prove it to Dean, because if Cas feels this bad, he can’t imagine how Dean feels, now that he thinks everything was a lie.

_Taptaptap._

Cas starts, bolting upright. The sound is coming from his window, and it’s a little cold out for birds.

_Taptaptap._

Cautiously, he draws the blinds-

And Bela’s sharp features appear behind the glass.

He swears.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” he complains, once the window’s open and she’s climbed in. He gets back in bed, glowering at her from the warmth of his covers. It’s not fair, exactly, but Cas is a little mad at her, too. Even if he’s the one who hurt Dean the worst, it was her and Crowley’s idea.

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” she retorts dryly, and follows him there. He isn’t expecting it, but he’s not surprised, either, and he scoots toward the wall so she has enough space.

They’re quiet for a few minutes, letting the silence surround them. Cas wishes there were a way for him to absorb it, to quell the storm that’s been raging in his brain all day, but sadly, that’s just not how things work.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asks. Even if Bela’s not crying, she wouldn’t be here if things were fine; after all, _Cas_ isn’t crying, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel like it.

It takes her a while to speak.

“I suppose it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Cas shrugs, and she huffs, a soft laugh without humor.

“You never did ask about that.”

“I didn’t need to,” he replies, not needing to think about it. “You didn’t owe me an explanation, Bela. You’re my friend, and — you needed me to be there for you. I didn’t need to know anything else.”

He glances over at her, and she’s smiling; there’s gratitude in there, but her eyes gleam with a wealth of suffering he suspects is always there, somewhere in the background.

She doesn’t explain now, either, and it’s still okay.

“I slept like a baby after my parents died,” she offers instead, and suddenly, that’s plenty of explanation. Too much, perhaps. “That probably makes me a bad person.”

“Do you think it does?”

Bela hesitates.

“No,” she whispers. “No, I don’t think so. But — what we did to Dean Winchester — that might make me a bad person.”

That weight on his chest seems to triple.

“You and me both.”

And then she surprises him.

“I know. I’m here for me, a little — but mostly I’m here for you.” She takes a deep breath. “Let’s not do something like that again.”

“Agreed,” he manages, past the lump in his throat, and she curls up next to him, resting her head against his shoulder and taking his hand. He appreciates the gesture, that she came here at all; he appreciates it, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve it.

“I don’t think you’re a bad person, though,” she says. “I really don’t.”

“I hope you’re right,” he answers, and they don’t talk after that; it seems like no time at all before Bela falls asleep, the steady rhythm of her breaths strangely soothing in the dark, but it still takes Cas a long time to follow.

In the morning, his mother walks in, and even though everybody’s fully clothed, she grounds Cas for a month.

Times goes by, as it generally does. Cas vacillates between feeling unworthy of forgiveness and wanting desperately to assuage all the doubts he knows Dean must be having now, but it turns out not to matter; he calls, and there’s no answer. He waits for Dean after school, and an eleven-year-old sends him packing, without fail. He tries to find Dean during the day, but Dean has many friends — as well he should — and they never give Cas a chance.

Eventually, he gives up, figuring that at some point, he’s making it worse for Dean. If Dean wants anything from him, he knows where to look.

There are a few rumors about what happened at the diner, but Cas’s friends carefully circulate a counter-accusation of heresy, and they die down not long after.

March ends, and though it’s still a sensitive subject, Gabe forgets and asks what Crowley won, anyway. Crowley surprises them both by saying he refused to claim what he called a ‘hollow victory.’

April slides into May, and May into June. Cas sees Dean in the hall sometimes, just in passing, but never looks for too long; still, he thinks he sees the changes happening, and he silently cheers Dean on from afar. A very selfish part of him even wishes he could be there to see it through.

They all graduate, Crowley and Bela flying off to England to settle in, and Cas mostly hides in his house until summer ends and he can finally escape to school, to a place where hardly anyone knows him and there are no reminders of the horrible things he’s done.

He turns out not to need them; he remembers, anyway.

Dean doesn’t fare much better. His grades slip a little, the first month, partly because he can’t go five minutes without devolving into a shame-spiral as he replays all his moments with Cas, and partly because he keeps waiting for his dad to come home and start screaming at him because the rumors have finally reached his ears. It never happens, and even though it embarrasses him, Dean’s friends treat his emotional recovery like it’s their job until eventually, he stops feeling like a walking corpse.

It doesn’t ever quite stop hurting, though, and when Cas finally quits calling or coming around, he only barely manages to be relieved.

The months pass, and the school year ends, and Dean almost never hears anything about Cas. He assumes he goes on to Kansas University, as planned, and tries to assure himself that if he ends up there, too, none of this will matter in two years.

He doesn’t believe it, but that’s fine; there’s still time.

Dean grows like a weed over the summer, finally, and his frame starts filling out. By the time tryouts happen at the beginning of the next semester, he’s big enough and good enough that he actually ends up playing in games.

By the end of the new semester, people he hasn’t seen in a while don’t recognize him.

On Valentine’s Day, Lisa Braeden asks _him_ to the dance.

It’s pretty much everything Dean ever wanted — or used to, anyway. He still thinks about Cas sometimes, but his friends assure him that will eventually stop.

It really doesn’t.


	9. Part II: one hail mary for the hole in my heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: references to past character death (just a reminder; this is in the story notes, and is a persistent theme, so I may not warn for it in individual chapters), brief reference to past Cas/other, additional note about some problematic thinking (regarding appearance/fitness) in the end notes, please let me know if I missed anything. (There's a reference to Lisa Frank in here, but as a reality of the 90s; it is not meant to be an endorsement.)
> 
> And now, we get to know our beloved dumbasses in their current state . . . Thank you so much for all your delightful feedback, and I hope Part II doesn't disappoint! In the meantime, I wish you all good health and good cheer, and please enjoy ♡

> _Casanova_
> 
> _Fucked me over_
> 
> _Left me dying for your love_
> 
> _Casanova, Casanova_
> 
> _Now you’re all I’m thinking of . . ._
> 
> _\- Casanova, Allie X ft. Verite_

_**\- 2017 -** _

“So! New school tomorrow. That’s a big deal, sweetheart.”

Hester looks at Claire expectantly, as she often does, these days; she is generally disappointed by whatever response she gets, but at least Claire is reasonably civil to her.

Which is more than can be said for how she treats _Cas_.

“I guess. I don’t really care.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Hester chides, trying a smile. “I raised eight children. The first day of school is a big deal, even if it’s the same place as the year before. Samandriel’s probably just as nervous, even if he isn’t saying.”

“Alfie,” Samandriel mumbles. Hester makes a face.

“Yeah, well, I’m not,” Claire insists, pushing her mashed potatoes around her plate. Cas is not sure humans were meant to eat potatoes as often as they seem to be served in his parents’ household, but given that Hester provides free baby-sitting and a reprieve from the constant sniping Claire subjects him to, he’s hardly going to complain about it.

Hester makes a humming noise, and turns to Cas.

“You remembered to buy school supplies, right?” she asks, tone gentle, like she’s expecting to hear that it slipped his mind. Like just because Cas was not a parent, had long-assumed he’d never _be_ a parent, he was too stupid and befuddled by the sudden shift in paradigm to remember that a thirteen-year-old needed school supplies.

He considers giving her a blank look, asking, ‘What, she can’t takes notes with a pocket-knife and her forearm?’ but supposes that’s a little dark for present company.

“Yes. I did.” It’s still strange and discomfiting, spending this much time with his mother. He ran fast and far in an effort to escape both of his parents, and adulthood proved definitively that that desire to get away was not strictly a product of his youth.

Because Hester has a lot of opinions, about a lot of things, and she is not afraid of expressing any of them — all with the best of intentions, of course.

(But then, good intentions are why Cas is even here in the first place, so he ought to be forgiven for viewing them with some prejudice.)

Hester beams at Claire.

“Did you get to pick up some cute stuff, Claire?”

Cas has experienced firsthand the way a person tends to _revert_ a little, being exposed to their parents as an adult, but he believes even an objective third party would take exception to the way Hester sometimes speaks to Claire, as though she were five instead of thirteen.

Claire shrugs, not looking at Cas.

“I don’t know, Cas, did you?”

“ _Uncle_ Cas,” Hester corrects, for the thousandth time this summer, and turns to Cas with a disapproving stare. “Castiel, you didn’t let her pick out her own things?”

Case in point. The nearly thirty-year old Castiel inside his brain understands how she interpreted Claire’s words and agrees that, especially given the tragic circumstances Claire has fallen into, she deserves a simple act of autonomy and pleasure like picking out her own school supplies.

The sullen teenager, apparently present despite its tendency to nap, wants to point out that Cas _never_ got to choose his own supplies.

He sighs, trying to figure out a way to explain without sounding accusatory.

“I invited Claire to come shopping with me a few times, but this close to school starting, I was worried she’d wind up attending empty-handed. She requested that I choose on her behalf.”

In reality, Claire had screamed at him to _just decide on your own, you assbut, like you always do!_

(She learned that from Cas, many years ago. He used to call Jimmy that when he became flustered, and Claire picked it up, because Claire used to adore Cas.)

(But again, that was many years ago.)

“I see.” Hester furrows her brow, and Cas knows that behind that creased forehead are a veritable wealth of new opinions that she will helpfully share with him later, when Claire’s not in the room and Cas is too worn out to devise a means of escape.

Anna coughs.

“Yeah? I’m having trouble picturing that,” she teases, giving Claire a conspiratorial smile. She’s met with narrowed eyes, but gamely continues. “Cas in that creepy trenchcoat of his, prowling the aisles and picking up Lisa Frank folders while all the parents side-eye him and lead their children away.”

Cas would fire back some kind of retort, but if jokes at his expense will make Claire laugh — or at least bring her some measure of satisfaction — then it’s worth it.

Claire’s lips twitch, bit then she scowls.

“Who’s Lisa Frank?”

Anna’s smile freezes, and she blinks calmly at Claire in a way Cas knows means a part of her soul is dying.

“Oh. Just — it’s a — sparkly orcas. She made things when I was a kid.”

Claire makes a face.

“Sparkly _orcas_? Wow, you were lame when you were a kid.”

Anna’s face tightens, but she offers a small laugh of agreement before returning to her dinner.

Claire used to like Anna, too, but now Claire doesn’t like anybody, and Cas can’t even blame her. Some days, he feels exactly the same.

Those are the days he wonders if Jimmy was wrong, if it might not be better for Claire if Cas ignored her father’s wishes and simply had her live with Hester. Alfie and Hael were still at home, after all. She could sit in her grandmother’s house and ignore people her own age instead of sitting in their apartment, ignoring someone she hated.

Someone who had her Dad’s face.

“Claire, can you pass me the broccoli?” Alfie asks. Cas isn’t sure if it’s because Alfie never spent much time with her, before, or if it’s simply because even Claire feels uncomfortable lashing out at someone with such a conspicuously sweet countenance, but she’s never rude to him.

She’s not friendly, either, though, and she hands over the broccoli without a word.

Hester folds up her napkin and sets it on the table.

“Well, Samandriel and Hael are going to watch the second Guardians of Space movie, if you’d like to join them.”

Cas receives a sideways glance from his niece, and when he catches her, she quickly turns away with an angry flush.

“I don’t know, ask my warden.”

_You, a thirteen-year-old_ _girl_ _, not being allowed to wander around an unfamiliar town by yourself is not the same thing as being a prisoner,_ he wants to say. Ignoring each of Claire’s little digs was much easier the first few months after Jimmy — after he was gone, when Cas was still raw from grief and probably wouldn’t have gotten out of bed if not for Claire. Nothing she said mattered, because she was there and they were together and he would not fail in the last thing his brother ever asked of him.

And he’s still committed to that; it’s just getting a little harder, lately.

Because he _understands_ that Claire’s whole life has been uprooted, and he doesn’t expect her to magically cope after losing both her parents in the span of a few years. He understands that no matter how badly he hurts sometimes, can be suddenly overwhelmed, without warning, as if the accident had happened yesterday — he still can’t imagine what she’s going through.

None of that makes it _easy._

“We can stay, if you want.”

“Whatever.”

Cas is still far from adept at this — _why did Jimmy think he could do this? —_ but he’s almost confident that means she wants to stay.

“Why don’t we do that? I’d like to see it.”

He wouldn’t, actually, because he’s only vaguely aware of the plot and he never saw the first one, but he’s more than happy to sit through a movie if it means Claire can forget about her problems for at least a couple hours.

He wishes he could find a way to do the same.

“We’re getting you out.”

“Out of where?” Cas asks reflexively, and Anna rolls her eyes at him.

“Out of your own head, for starters.”

“I’m fine.”

“None of us are fine, Cas, but you’re not even trying.”

He fixes her with a glare, deeply resenting the implication. The completely _wrong_ implication.

“You’re right, because taking on an adolescent child, quitting my job, and moving back home to a place I’ve avoided as much as possible for the last decade, all in an effort to give said child the care she deserves, isn’t ‘trying _.’_ ”

“It’s not trying for _you._ ”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

She throws her hands up.

“You’re doing everything you can to take care of _Claire._ And that’s good. That’s what — that’s what he would have wanted. It’s what she needs, even if she doesn’t always act like it . But that doesn’t mean you can not take care of you, too, Cas, and I don’t remember the last time you did something that was just about _you_.”

“I ordered a foot bath off of Amazon,” he protests, because while he sees her point, he is much too horrified to acknowledge it.

“Don’t even start with me,” she threatens, and he folds.

“Fine. I don’t take care of me, but I don’t know what that means.”

Anna’s eyes soften a little, although there’s no give in her resolve.

“That’s why we’re going to figure it out, Cas. It’s Friday, Mom’s happy to have Claire stay over, and I bet you haven’t been _out_ out in at least a year.”

_O_ _f course not,_ he doesn’t say. A year ago, everything changed. Everything fell apart.

But if he’s being honest, Cas hasn’t had a night out in more like _two_ years. Sometimes friends from college or high school would be in New York and he’d go out for drinks, but it’s been a very, very long time since he had much of a social life.

Mostly, he worked, and when he didn’t work, he loitered around Jimmy’s place, playing odd Uncle and living vicariously through his brother because Cas was a special brand of utterly boring fuckup and he’d probably never have any of it for himself.

There’s no going back to that, though.

“Is it just us?” he asks, not sure what he wants the answer to be. Anna’s more likely to take pity on him and call it an early night, because she’s worn pretty damn thin lately, too, but it’s also less likely to be much of a night out, for the same reasons.

His sister wants to help him, wants to help herself; but they’re both so bogged down it’s hard to be much use keeping someone else afloat.

“Val and Gabe will be there. And you can invite Bela, if she’s in town.”

He sighs.

“That’s acceptable,” he agrees, and the relief in his sister’s face sends a wave of guilt over him, guilt for which he can’t even begin to find the words to apologize. “What time?”

Bela remains in Europe, but Gabe and Valencia are waiting with Anna when Cas arrives at _fate/fortune._

He doesn’t remember the place, from either his youthful wandering or occasional visits as an adult. Of course, those visits were few and far between, and even if they weren’t, it’s not as though he’s spent much time in nightclubs the last few years; he supposes he should just be grateful it looks like it’s on the nicer end of things. There was a time, long, long ago, when a certain level of seediness was _desirable_ , but these days, he barely remembers it.

“Oh, good,” Valencia calls out when she sees him, amusement tinged with real relief. “Anna just spent the last five minutes threatening to hunt you down and drag you out.”

“You can’t force someone to have fun,” Gabe points out.

“You can’t force a lot of things,” Cas retoerts. “It’s never stopped her from trying.”

“Hey, it works sometimes. A lot of the time, actually,” his sister defends. “And I would never _make_ you. I just — worried you needed a little more convincing.”

Everyone else exchanges speaking looks, and she quickly ushers them into the club, grumbling all the way.

“Was this always here?” Cas asks, once they’re in. He’s pretty sure it wasn’t, but he might as well ask.

“Nah, a local chick opened it up a few years ago. Put herself through school as a fortune teller-slash-psychic, hence the name,” Gabe explains.

“I went to school with her; she’s pretty cool,” Anna adds. “I hear she’ll still do readings, if she’s around.”

“No, thank you,” Cas is quick to say. “I’m fairly certain I know how things will go at this point.”

His sister frowns at him, of course, but Cas is nothing if not a realist. He’s going to spend the next five years failing to be a good guardian to Claire, living in a house that alternates between silence and explosions of bitter fury, and then his niece will run away to college the first chance she gets and possibly never speak to him again because she’ll be old enough to truly understand what a terrible job he actually did caring for her. Past that? Maybe he’ll stay here, in the town he grew up in, listening to his mother’s weekly lectures; or maybe he’ll move back to the city, and spend all his time working. Either way, he’ll wake up and work and go home alone, and that will be all there is.

Unless, of course, any of his other siblings abruptly pass away and see fit to leave him custody of their children. If that _is_ the case, Cas sure as hell doesn’t want to know about it.

The club is crowded and loud, and Cas has trouble believing he ever thrived in such an environment, drunk out of his mind and packed together with other sweaty, inebriated strangers, trying to forget everything that existed beyond the room, beyond the night.

Right now, he just feels strange and out of place. He almost wants to go home, but he feels strange and out of place there, too, even more so without the background rhythm of Claire’s evening routine, setting a pace for his heart to match, like it might just forget to keep beating if left to the silence.

As if reading his thoughts, his sister nudges him.

“I can’t believe you wore the coat; I’m surprised they let you _in_. I should have said something in my text.”

“Yeah, Cassie,” Gabe chimes in. “Where’s all those tight little black jeans you used to own?”

“In the back of his closet, with all those mysterious skeletons he refuses to tell us about,” Val guesses, a twinkle in her eye.

“Well, you’re in luck. Get a few drinks in Gabe and he’ll be happy to tell you stories about me. Some of them might even be true.” Cas looks at Gabe, brow arched, and Gabe looks back, clearly understanding the message: _I don’t care what you say as long as you don’t talk about senior year._

Valencia cocks her head, glancing between them like she understands, too, though that’s impossible. She has come to know Cas well, since Anna seemed to bring her home from college like some kind of human souvenir, but she knows the Cas that started slowing down after his first year of university and now barely moves at all.

“Noted. Gabe, let me buy you a drink?” she asks, all sunny mischief, and Gabe agrees readily.

In light of that, Cas isn’t sure how _he_ ends up being sent to order the drinks, but three minutes later he’s been given a list and Anna is pushing him away from the table so she and Gabe can play _Guess Which Story Is Fake_ with Valencia. It’s ridiculous, because there is nothing they could possibly gain from misleading her as to his youthful shenanigans, and also because Valencia’s probably going to win the game whether Cas is there with his supposed tells or not.

“Be right with you,” a deep voice calls over its owner’s shoulder, and Cas nods as he settles on a just-vacated stool to wait, forgetting that the man is turned the other way.

It’s a little quieter by the bar; Cas can still hear Taylor Swift’s ominous insinuations as to what she has been driven by her enemies to do, but the bartender didn’t even have to shout to be heard, and Cas hopes it’s the same from this side of the counter. It doesn’t make sense, but Cas feels too _tired_ to shout. If he finds he has to repeat himself, he might just head to the bathroom instead, and let everyone else figure out the drinks themselves.

Two minutes later, the song has changed to a grueling beat without vocals, and after gracefully sliding a pair of shots toward a tall blonde that hasn’t stopped bobbing her head since she got there, the bartender comes to stand in front of Cas.

Cas tears his gaze away from the ceiling, which he’s just noticed is covered in lights meant to look like constellations. He likes it, though it seems oddly peaceful for the thundering music and jarring sway of the crowd beneath it.

“Hi, could I . . . could I get . . .”

Cas loses his words before they’re even halfway out, a fact of which he’s distantly aware, but not to any degree that would spur his brain to fix it. He wasn’t paying attention to the man before, but he should have been; he realizes, now, that he’s wasted five minutes of his life that he could have spent looking at this person, and he feels the loss deeply.

The man is _beautiful._ In fact, he’s probably the most beautiful person Cas has ever _seen_ ; if you took every thought Cas ever had about what his ideal type was and put it together in one tailor-made package, it wouldn’t look anything like this, because this man is _unimaginably gorgeous._ Cas is neither creative enough or naive enough to envision, from scratch, this sort of perfection.

An eternity passes in a second, a blissful eternity of freckles and green eyes framed by long lashes, high cheekbones and soft, captivating lips at odds with the strong jaw and stubborn chin. His hair is either blond or light brown; it’s impossible to say with the way the overhead lights flicker, illuminating this God among men in new and breathtaking ways with each transition of color.

The mouth is pulling up into an amused smile, the eyes crinkling at the corners, and it’s stupid and silly and perhaps even a little bit insane, but there is a sense of familiarity, looking into those eyes, a recognition and connection, as if Cas is returning to something that has been a piece of him all along, and it makes him think of inane and nonsensical quotes about soulmates; like Cas _knows_ this man, beyond the physical, has seen into the core of him and has shown him himself in return and forged a bond between the two, and encountering one another, here and now, in this moment–

It’s fate and fortune both.

Cas swallows. Alright, so — more than a little insane. Very insane, perhaps.

“Um. Hi,” he says anyway, and that smile widens, and oh, God, when he _smiles-_

“Hey, yourself. What can I getcha?”

And his voice — his voice matches him perfectly, deliciously warm and low, smooth and gruff all at the same time, and it’s doing things to Castiel, lighting up nerves he supposed had stoically resigned themselves to lay dormant forever, but are now somehow agile revelers in the night.

“Right. Sorry. Uh, I — I’d like four shots of vodka, an Old Fashioned, and a Purple Nurple.”

The guy raises a brow, and even though there’s more of a line accumulating, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“I hope those aren’t all for you.”

The riotous youth within wants to smirk and tell the bartender he can handle a lot, but that troublemaker hasn’t been in charge for a decade. The Cas sitting on the stool has no idea how to deal with the being that stands before him, and certainly lacks either the confidence to deliver such a line or the fortitude to bear the beautiful man laughing at him if he tried.

“Oh, no, of course not. I’m here with friends.”

“Ah, that’s good. I’d hate to have to pour you into a cab later tonight.”

_But_ _you_ _could_ _pour me into bed, instead;_ _y_ _ours,_ _even_ _. Perhaps we could discard our clothing and then test my coordination._

Cas turns red, because he has not, in fact, drunk anything at all yet, and it’s been a long, long time since he went from zero-to-wildly-inappropriate that soon after meeting someone.

“Yes, well, you look like you could manage it,” he mumbles, only to realize that’s not that much better when the man gives him a speculative look.

“Too bad we won’t find out.” And then he’s busy making the drinks, leaving Cas to sit and watch the motions, mesmerized by the breadth of his shoulders and the curve of his backside and wondering what to make of those words.

Bartenders flirt; this is a fact. Bars hire attractive bartenders, because people are shallow and terrible and they like pretty things in the background, and bartenders flirt because people are also a little stupid and they’ll tip better even if logically, they know there’s nothing behind it.

Thus, it’s naive and potentially a little skeevy of Cas to mistake any banter coming from someone so far out of his league as actual interest.

That doesn’t stop Cas from _thinking_ about it.

_What if,_ that tiny, insidious corner of his brain responsible for lust asks (probably after crawling through a thick barrier of cobwebs). _What if he were interested?_ _You_ _could,_ _if you felt like it._ _You_ should. _It’s been so long since_ _you_ _did, since_ _you_ _even wanted to._

Of course, that corner of his brain is not very clever, because Cas is distracted from allowing himself to be convinced as he instead tries to remember when the last time actually was.

He thinks he picked someone up at an office Christmas party two years ago — or was it three? Oh — it must have been three, because Amelia had passed away six months before and Jimmy was urging him to get out of the house because he ‘didn’t need a babysitter and you shouldn’t have to be it, anyway,’ and since Cas’s boss had heavily implied that there would be severe repercussions for non-attendance . . .

He winces. Coworkers had plied him with drinks, curious to see if they could discover anything underneath that unnervingly quiet exterior, and while Cas is pretty sure he didn’t talk much, he does remember hooking up with someone else’s bored date in one of the second-floor offices. (In his defense, he didn’t _know._ He assumed the woman just worked in a different department.)

He blinks, a tray of drinks coming into focus, and looks up. The bartender is giving him a quizzical look.

“A lot on your mind, buddy?”

Cas grew up in Lawrence, and never had any particular affection for the ubiquitous Midwestern drawl, but the way it sounds in this man’s voice nearly has him shaking.

“Something like that,” he says dryly (or maybe it’s just that his _mouth_ is dry — who can say? ) and picks up the tray. He hopes it’s not obvious how reluctant he suddenly is to leave. If he were by himself, he would just stay seated at the bar, sipping at his drink and watching the bartender out of the corner of his eye; m aybe flirting a little, if the guy seemed up to it. He _would_ hold up his end of the bargain and leave a generous tip, after all.

“Well, take it easy. See you in a bit,” the man adds, winking, and Cas commends himself on not sliding to the floor along with all his friends’ drinks.

He carefully maneuvers back over to the table, where-

Everyone is staring at him.

Valencia speaks first.

“Oh, hi, Cas. Long time no see.”

He furrows his brow.

“I was here less than ten minutes ago.”

“Less than ten minutes?” she asks, and Anna and Gabe are already giggling like they know the punchline. “Wow, kids these days have no stamina. That kind of eyefucking should last at _least_ twenty.”

His friend and sister dissolve, while Val’s only tell is how genuinely earnest she looks.

Cas simply clears his throat, face flaming.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cassie,” Gabe gasps. “You looked you were going to climb over the bar, and then climb _him_.”

“Ew,” Anna chokes out between laughs.

“I was not — it never crossed my mind!” he snaps, reaching for one of the shots and downing it. That’s not totally a lie; while he may have considered, abstractly, getting to know the man in a more intimate context, he did not at any time picture hopping the bar and trying to do it there.

Three shit-eating grins are directed his way, anyhow, and he sighs.

“Just — drink your drinks.”

If Cas didn’t know any better, he’d think his friends drank their drinks about twice as fast as they normally would, just so they could send him back to the bar and laugh at him some more.

He’s probably just being paranoid, right?

(He’s not.)

“Wow, that was fast. What’s next?”

Cas has miraculously arrived at a lull, and he plunks himself down on the same stool as last time.

“Four shots of vodka, yes, but this time we need four Cosmos.”

“Comin’ right up.” The man gets to work, periodically glancing back at Cas. Cas wonders if it would be weird to ask his name, just to flesh out the fantasies he’s going to have later when he’s drunk and falling asleep. “Hey, what’s with the tax accountant getup, anyway? You know what a nightclub is, right?”

Cas tries to stay his rising blush, though he doubts he manages.

“Yes, I just — it’s been a while since I’ve been to one. To be honest, I — I didn’t exactly want to come out tonight.”

The man gives him a curious look, as if he’s about to ask, but seems to change his mind.

“Mm, well — I’m glad you did.”

Cas doesn’t know what to say to that, but fortunately, it doesn’t seem like a response is expected.

“So, that answers the question of why I haven’t seen you around before. You also new in town, or just been hidin’?”

Cas hesitates. He doesn’t exactly want to get into the gory details of his move here; nor does he want to reveal his identity if the man is also a Lawrence native. The man has the kind of features that mean he could be anywhere from twenty-two to thirty-two, and in the unlikely event that Cas has crossed paths with him, he’d like to be the one to decide when he’s recognized.

Cas doubts it, though; he’s sure he would remember this man, if he’d ever so much as laid eyes on him. If they’d actually met, he doubts he could ever scrub him from his mind, no matter how many years passed.

“New. Sort of.”

“Uh-huh. That’s not vague.” He sets the four Cosmos on the tray, studying Cas. “Hey — when you say ‘sort of’ — I don’t s’pose you ever lived around here before, did you?”

Perhaps Cas spoke too soon.

“Why?” he asks, cautious.

“Just — you seem so familiar. Like, I’d swear I recognized you from somewhere, but then, I’m sure I wouldn’t forget a face like yours.” He winks again, and though a part of Cas wants to say, _Me, too; maybe we’re soulmates,_ he neither believes that or wants this guy to think he’s crazy.

Cas swallows, hard.

“I did grow up here.”

“No shit? You go to Lawrence High?”

“I did.” Could he _seriously_ have met this guy and _not remembered?_ Maybe the man was a freshman when Cas was in his last year, or something.

Of course, Cas was rather preoccupied, his last year. He didn’t have a lot of focus left over for much of anything else.

The thought sobers him, as it tends to do, but the bartender doesn’t seem to notice, having abandoned drink-making to chew on his full bottom lip, regarding Cas thoughtfully with those green, green eyes.

“Yeah? What year did you — well, actually, just — what’s your name?”

And here it is. Cas hopes that if the man does know of him, he harbors no grudges or even negative memories.

(It occurs to Cas that he might actually have _slept_ with this person, but he immediately vetoes the idea, mostly because it’s unbearable.)

“Castiel. Castiel Novak.”

The man’s eyes widen, and Cas tenses — until a tiny grin appears on the guy’s face.

“Well, shit, Cas. Long time no see.” He sticks out a hand. “It’s Dean. Dean Winchester.”

When Castiel Novak walks into Pamela’s club and comes right up to the bar Dean is, by happenstance, currently tending, it feels like Christmas came early.

Or it would, except Dean’s been waiting for this moment for over a decade.

Of course, he’s only been _actively_ waiting for this moment for the last two months, ever since Pamela said she saw her old schoolmate Anna having breakfast with her little brother at Missouri’s. Dean’s not usually slow on the uptake, but he thinks he can be forgiven for forgetting all the extraneous little details of Cas’s life, in light of the one big, unforgettable way he left Dean’s.

Anyway, Pamela clarified the significance for him, and ever since then, Dean’s held his breath whenever he rounds a corner or walks into a shop. He’s found himself scanning the faces of other drivers when he sits at a red light, giving every dark-haired pedestrian a second glance. Pamela says she didn’t know Cas too well, back in the day, but that it hadn’t seemed like he’d changed much.

_Certainly_ , she’d said with a sly smirk, _he hasn’t changed as much as you have._

She was right.

Dean sneaks glances at him once he’s sat down, hurrying to prepare the last customer’s drink so he can get to Cas. Cas has that same unruly bird’s nest growing out of his head, and even in the weird club lighting, the blue of his eyes hasn’t dimmed a bit. There are lines there, that weren’t before, and though Cas always used to have a tired look to him, it’s more pronounced now. His frame has filled out a lot, the willowy bent to it replaced by solid-looking mass. He’s still lean, though, narrower than Dean grew up to be, and he doesn’t appear to have gotten taller, either; Dean suspects he’s got a couple of inches on him, at least, and the realization makes him bite back a grin.

He can definitely work with that.

Once the previous customer, without breaking her odd, stationary dancing, has picked up her drinks and left, Dean makes his way to Cas.

Which, probably the biggest difference between the Cas of now and the Cas of then is how he holds himself. This Cas doesn’t sprawl, or lounge, or even perch attentively on his stool. He sits there, shoulders tense and weary all at once, elbows and hands tucked in close. He’s also wearing a fucking _trench coat_ inside of a night club, and Dean is kind of dying to know if that’s a weird thing happening today or if Casanovak went fashion-blind in the last eleven years.

On the other hand, maybe Cas is hiding a massive paunch underneath that coat. It’s not like a part of Dean hadn’t been hoping Cas had completely let himself go over the years, because say what you want — Dean might have a shitfuckton of flaws, but his looks aren’t one of them, and wouldn’t _that_ be a nice role-reversal.

Cas is squinting up at the ceiling, as if transfixed, but he tears his attention away after a few seconds, finally noticing Dean.

“Hi, could I . . . could I get . . .”

And then he _notices_ Dean, like _really_ notices _,_ and even though Dean can see a waiting customer giving them an impatient look, he doesn’t give a fraction of a shit about it, because this moment is pretty much everything Dean has wanted from life for the last _decade_.

It’s all he can do not to break into a big, cartoonishly evil grin.

Dean’s not sixteen anymore; he recognizes the look on Cas’s face. If he didn’t know how completely full of shit Cas was, he would even be flattered by the transparent awe he sees there. Cas is literally speechless looking at him, a fact that, to be honest, prompts a brief flicker of doubt; could Cas _recognize_ him?

That . . . would be something. Shit, eleven years is a long time, even if Dean didn’t pull an Ugly Duckling at the same time as he grew half a foot.

“Um. Hi,” Cas says, sounding a little breathless, and Dean can’t help the way his smile grows. Nah, Cas doesn’t know a thing.

Although he’d clearly _like_ to, if his mumbled little flirtation is anything to go by.

In some ways, Dean’s a little disappointed. Cas Novak is a waste of thought — and a waste of space, in general — but that hasn’t exactly stopped Dean from thinking about him over the years. And he’s thought a _lot_ about how Cas grew up; when he was feeling particularly vindictive, he even imagined Cas chubby and prematurely balding, and possibly having caught something unpleasant from all his philandering (though after that truckstop waitress with the strange rash, Dean stopped finding STDs funny, even in the context of people he despised). But most of the time, Dean was realistic; somebody as beautiful as Cas probably never _stopped_ being beautiful, no matter how hard the years were.

And Cas _is_ still beautiful, but the Cas of Dean’s youth would have looked him dead in the eye and spoken his line loud and clear; or at the very least, he would have murmured it coyly, or whatever that little thing Cas used to do is called, well-aware of what he was doing.

This Cas seems to have let it slip out almost by accident.

It gives Dean something to think about after Cas has gone back to his table. If he’s right, based on Cas’s grim countenance and his friends’ boisterous glee, Cas is going to be the one coming back for round two, and Dean wants to be ready. He might have heard that Cas was back in town, but nobody Dean knows travels in the same circles as his family — that is to say, they’re not really churchgoers — and he doesn’t know much else about Cas, or why he’s even here again.

Not that people really change. Still, though — Dean wishes he knew how Cas tended to act these days, knew what all he was into, so he could play this right. He wishes he knew all of Cas’s weak spots, so he could worm his way close to them and stab a fucking needle right through the centers.

But he doesn’t, so he’s going to have to tread lightly and see where it takes him.

Anyway, Cas does come back, not too long after, and once he’s there, he tells Dean some bullshit about not having been out in a while. And yeah, okay, that _could_ be true — Dean doesn’t go out that much anymore, either, though there was a time he practically lived for parties and nights out at the bar — but Cas says it in this rueful, tired way, utterly guileless, and Dean just doesn’t buy it. He remembers the fire in Cas back when they were kids; hell, he got _burned_ by it. That kind of thing never really dies.

So Dean flirts a little, and then he probes, and after frustratingly vague answers, he goes ahead and drops his bomb. As hilarious as it would be to pass Cas a fake name and take him home tonight — hilarious, among other things — and then get to enjoy his horror when he found out the truth later — it’s not worth it.

Nope, Dean’s got _way_ better things planned than some cheap, short-lived joke.

And _wow_ ; if Dean thought Cas being obviously affected by his appearance was a glorious moment, Cas’s face when he realizes who Dean is is definitely a moment to savor.

There’s horror, mostly; there’s a very satisfying flash of fear in there, too; and then there’s something else, something pained, and Dean’s not sure what he hopes is the source of that, but suffice to say there are a few more-than-palatable options to consider.

He keeps his easy grin, blinking at Cas curiously when he doesn’t shake the proffered hand.

_Good,_ Dean thinks. He’s not sure what he’d have done if Cas had put on a smile and played nice, like he didn’t completely fuck Dean over in high school. That would have been some bullshit, right there, especially when that fiasco has haunted Dean pretty doggedly ever since.

“Dean,” Cas says, and Dean abruptly realizes that _Cas’s_ voice has deepened, too. It was also a ridiculous pitch for a teenage boy, but he remembers, vividly, how it sounded saying his name, and it’s different now.

Dean raises his brows, wiggling his outstretched hand, and brushes the thought aside.

“Yeah, you Tarzan, me Jane; I think we got that,” he jokes, and Cas stares at his hand for a second before slowly reaching for it. Dean, impatient and strangely giddy, makes up the rest of the distance, pressing his palm to Cas’s warm, dry one. “Man, this is crazy. Would never in a million years have expected to run into you here.”

“Indeed,” Cas says, still staring at their joined hands. Dean gives him a light squeeze, just to test the waters, and Cas flinches, quickly withdrawing it. “You — um, do you — work here?”

“Nah, I’m just filling in since Pam’s short-staffed. You remember Pamela? Lived with Missouri, worked at the diner?”

“Ah — yes, I believe so.” Cas blinks hard, suddenly looking pretty much everywhere but at Dean. “I — wouldn’t have expected you to still be around, either.”

“Yeah? Dunno where else I’d go.”

Cas shrugs, staring down at the row of drinks.

“Bigger and better things than Lawrence, I suppose. Maybe to play professionally.”

At that, Dean laughs.

“Shit, man, I never even made it off the bench when you knew me. Besides, I think you’d have noticed if I became some big-name football star.”

Cas gives him a tentative smile, glancing up for a brief moment before looking away again. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d find the shy, awkward thing endearing.

It’s not, though, because Dean knows _exactly_ what’s behind it all. And somebody that good at lying — the kind of lying you don’t just tell with words — is probably even better at it after a decade more of practice.

No fucking way is Dean gonna let Cas catch him out in this game. Not again.

“I don’t really follow football,” Cas explains, and yeah, maybe that’s not really a surprise.

“Uh-huh. Well, I guess the point is, you wouldn’t have seen me. I’m a schoolteacher, now.”

“Oh.” Cas looks surprised, and then he gets a funny look. “That’s, um, that’s nice.”

Realistically, mind-reading is a shitty skill, because people are all kinds of fucked up and it’s hard enough not to go crazy in your own brain, but right about now, Dean really, really wishes he could.

“Hey asshole, you gonna give the rest of us some love or what?” a familiar voice hollers, and Dean holds up a middle finger without looking. Cas furrows his brow, visibly perturbed as he searches for the source of the yell.

“Well, that was rude,” he says, and Dean chuckles.

“No, that’s Jo.” He glances over to where she’s waving at him. “Hold your horses, Joanna! Do I talk to you like that when I come to _The Roadhouse_?”

“Uh, no, because Mom’d kick your sorry ass out of the bar before you got the words out!” She grins back, pleased with herself, and Dean shakes his head.

Jo’s right, though. There’s a queue forming, and as much as Dean would be happy to spend all night figuring out the updated model, he’s gonna have to wait.

“Well, Cas, it was real nice seein’ you again. This your last round?”

Cas hesitates.

“Uh. Yes, I should — probably get home.”

“Too bad. Why don’t we trade numbers, and maybe we can play catch up one of these days?”

Cas stares at him. Dean gazes back, innocent and unfazed.

“Okay.”

_Fuck yes._

“Cool.” Dean fishes his phone out of his pocket and unlocks it. “How ‘bout you put your number in while I take care of this next order?”

Another pause, and then, as if powered by molasses, Cas picks up the phone.

“Okay,” he says again, and Dean beams.

“Awesome. Be back in a sec.”

Cas is fidgeting by the time Dean’s taken care of three drink orders and sidled back over, and he’s clearly startled when he glances up and finds Dean standing there again.

“Oh — Dean. Uh, I — I put my number in there. But I should . . . my friends are waiting, so . . .” He clears his throat. “It was nice seeing you again. Thank you. Good bye.”

And then Cas grabs his tray and hastens away before Dean can get in another word.

Well, that was weird- but that’s okay; Dean can work with weird.

And _boy_ , does he intend to.

Cas is shaking by the time he gets to the table, carefully maneuvering the tray onto it, lest everything come crashing down.

Dean Winchester.

_Dean._

He halfway collapses into the booth, and Anna gives him a concerned look.

“You’ve barely had any, Cas, are you okay?”

“No. I mean, yes. I’m not drunk.”

“Okay? What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not drunk,” he mumbles, and pulls his coat tighter around himself for comfort before reaching for one of the shots.

His sister just looks confused.

“It looked like it went well. Didn’t you give him your number?”

Cas holds a finger up, because he’s already downing the second shot and his mouth is full. He sets the glass down with a gasp.

“Yes. I did. Oh, god. I did, didn’t I? I shouldn’t have. Why did I do that? Fuck, I’m an _idiot.”_

Three bemused stares are turned in his direction, but he can’t care. He’s still panicking.

Normally, when Cas gives an inhumanly attractive person his phone number, it’s a good thing. And perhaps now isn’t the best time, given Claire and his general lethargy and malaise, but Anna’s always telling him to take care of himself, that he deserves nice things, and the guy fixing drinks behind the bar is about as nice as you get.

Except the guy is _Dean._

Because Dean Winchester is still in Lawrence, where Cas has just returned to, and he grew up to be _painfully_ beautiful, which Cas is, unsurprisingly, very susceptible to. (He never did get over that pesky bisexuality like his parents said he would.) Cas doubts even that smiley brunette Dean had a crush on could have predicted this.

And Cas — Cas just _gave him his phone number._

“So, what’s the problem, Cassie? Did he say something weird before you left, like ‘Great, I hope you like clownplay?’”

“What’s clo-no, never mind, don’t tell me.” Cas reaches for one of the Cosmos. “He — his name is Dean.”

Gabe freezes, although Anna and Val still look confused.

“Dean?” Gabe echoes, suddenly craning his neck toward the bar. “ _Dean Winchester?_ The guy you—"

Valencia and his sister literally collide as they lean forward to get a better view.

“Dean who?” they ask in unison, rubbing their heads.

“The guy Cas _what_?” Valencia adds. “Like, inquiring minds really want to know. Like now.”

Cas gives Gabe a hard stare, and he looks down.

“Uhhh. Nobody?”

Anna’s not having any of it.

“Nobodies don’t have _names_ , Gabriel. Who the hell is Dean Winchester?”

“Cas’s ex?” Valencia suggests, eyes wandering curiously. “He definitely looks like Cas’s type. Actually, he looks like everybody’s type. Hey, Cas, what’s our friend-policy on exes?”

“Cas _just_ got his number!” Anna exclaims, appalled. “You can’t categorize him as an ex anymore!”

“Right. Not yet, anyway.” Val pauses. “Is he, though?”

Cas narrows his eyes.

“You can’t date him.”

She lifts a brow.

“Okay. Is that — in accordance with the policy, or is that like a special Dean Winchester rule? Oh,” she says suddenly, blinking. “Is he your one-that-got-away? _Is he why the skinny jeans live in the closet_?”

Cas winces, because that hits a little too close to home, and Valencia’s face falls, the humor fading.

“Shit. Did he break your heart?”

Cas isn’t sure whether he wants to laugh or throw up, so he settles for putting his head on the table and taking a deep breath to keep whatever it is down.

“No. He’s just somebody that I used to know.”

He is, at long last, met with silence.

And then Gabe snorts.

“Like — did you really just—"

“What?”

“You did that on purpose, right, Cassie?”

“ _What_?”

“Oh, boy.” Gabe chuckles. “Anyway, that’s really Deano over there?”

“Yes,” Cas tells the table.

Gabe emits a low whistle. At least, he thinks it was Gabe.

“Damn, he grew up fine!”

“Was he not always fine?” Anna asks, like she finds that hard to believe, and Gabriel laughs.

“Hell, no! Back in the day, Dean was about as big as I am now, all awkward colt limbs and round cheeks. I see the pretty doe eyes stuck around, though.”

“Gabe. Can we not talk about this?”

“What? I’m just _expressing_ my _surprise_ that our _mutual acquaintance_ now looks like an underwear model!”

Cas lifts his head to glare at him, and Gabe must sense the line he’s about to cross, because he sobers.

“Alright, alright. I’m just being an ass, there’s not really a story here.”

“Uh-huh,” Valencia says dryly, but Cas is already tuning them out to give his low-level panic attack the attention it truly deserves.

He’s still not sure why he gave Dean his number. He would not have described himself as a glutton for punishment, generally, but he must be, because only a masochistic _fool_ would give their phone number to someone they fucked over so badly once upon a time.

And Cas is not a fool (even if he’s apparently a masochist) because the minute Dean reintroduced himself, Cas realized exactly what was happening, and he didn’t buy it for a minute.

You don’t do what Cas did to someone and get an easygoing smile and an offer to reconnect eleven years later. You just _don’t._ The best you can possibly hope for is polite, distant acknowledgment, after which you’re avoided and ignored forever. But that’s the best-case scenario, and best-case scenarios typically never happen.

No, in this case, Cas wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Dean straight-up punched him across the bar.

What Dean _actually_ did . . .

It’s not that he wasn’t convincing. If Cas had just shoved him around a bit in the hallways and called him names, Cas might have believed the tenderhearted boy he’d known actually grew into that much of a forgiving, gregarious man.

But Cas _wasn’t_ a mostly inattentive school bully; as bad as Cas felt when the fallout hit, even then, he still didn’t fully grasp how _horrible_ what he’d done was.

He gets it now, though. He knows it’s not the kind of thing you ever forget, and it’s not the kind of thing you can forgive, either.

And that’s how he knows Dean is full of shit, and that he can and should anticipate a complicated and painful execution of vengeance now that he’s finally landed in the crosshairs, because at the end of the day, it’s probably exactly what he deserves.

Even so-

It still doesn’t explain why he gave Dean his number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note About Problematic Thinking: Dean has a thought about having hoped Cas had ‘let himself go,’ theorizing he may have a paunch under his coat, and reflecting on a number of petty imaginings he’s had over the years. I felt like this is both a term he would use and thoughts he might have, given the particulars of the situation, but generally speaking, these are not appropriate ways to think about things. Lifestyle choices frequently aren’t, actually, and bodies undergo changes, whether those changes are within our power to influence or not. Them looking a certain way should not have to be a cause for motivation or criticism, and even if someone is awful, we should attack the things that make them awful, not disparage physical attributes that plenty of good, lovable people have, too.


	10. Part II: in your head and i won't stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: references to light violence between minors (details in the notes, also some explanation of how it’s handled), reference to past Sam/Ruby, please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> Apologies for the wait; last week was super busy, but hopefully the next chapter will be along shortly! Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you’re all doing well!! ♡

> _Be tormented by me, babe_
> 
> _Wonder, wonder how I do_
> 
> _How’s the weather? Am I better?_
> 
> _Better now that there’s no you_
> 
> _Drink tequila for me, babe_
> 
> _Let it hit you cool and hot_
> 
> _Let your feelings be revealing_
> 
> _That you can forget me not . . ._
> 
> _\- EMOTION, Carly Rae Jepsen_

The longer Cas has to think about it, the more he begins to slowly drive himself mad with speculation.

Obviously, Dean wants revenge. There’s no speculating on _that_ point; Cas refuses to consider that Dean might have any motive for wanting to _speak_ to him, let alone see him, other than an earnest, heartfelt desire to watch him suffer. Dean was nobody’s fool when they were kids, has no doubt grown even more clever with time, and given the dark purpose to which he may _even now_ be applying that cleverness—

Cas had better be on his guard.

As it turns out, however, it is very difficult to be on guard against something that isn’t actually happening.

Cas, for obvious reasons, is not going to contact Dean first. Or at all, if Dean doesn’t. In fact, for all he knows, Dean just wanted his number so he could sell it to various obnoxious and/or embarrassing spam organizations — although, he kind of doubts it; no, Cas is sure Dean has something far more complex and sinister in mind for him, something that will have Cas longing for the impersonal annoyance of telemarketers and suspect charities, nuisances he can nonetheless hang up on.

Anyway, his adamant refusal to call or text Dean does not, as one might hope, put the worries out of mind. Instead, Cas finds himself staring down at his phone in between moments, compulsively unlocking it and pulling open the Messages App, even when there are no new notifications. He jumps every time it _does_ make a noise, and his heart does something altogether unhealthy right up until he concludes it _is_ _n’t_ Dean, after all; and every time he finally forces himself to set it aside for a while, struggling to focus on anything other than his absolute, impending doom, he feels its presence in the room like a silent, judgmental ghost (maybe one belonging to an elephant, even, carelessly slaughtered by his youthful follies).

Even Claire notices, making a face at breakfast on the second day and asking him if he met someone special at the club or something. Cas almost laugh-cries right in front of his thirteen-year-old niece, because _yes,_ Dean is _very_ special _,_ assuming that’s what you call someone who exists in your memories as indisputable evidence of the black, rotten core of your soul.

Claire doesn’t need to worry he’s having some kind of mental break on top of everything else, though, so he calmly denies it.

At which point, ever-helpful, she says:

“Uh-huh. You know they probably changed their mind once they sobered up, right?”

And despite the fact that Claire has no idea what she’s talking about, her unkind sarcasm does present another possibility to him: perhaps Dean changed his mind? Perhaps Dean was swept away in the moment, seeing his most-hated enemy walk into the bar, and then-and-there devised some vicious scheme against Cas only to decide, in the reasonable light of day, that he was above such things and would waste no more of his time on one so pitifully undeserving.

The thought should provide Cas with a measure of relief.

It does not.

Of course, as the second day draws to a close, it occurs to Cas that _maybe_ the silence is due to that menace of a cliché, the three-day rule he’s heard his siblings complain about but has himself never seen the point of. Is Dean _so_ uncreative and formulaic, Cas wonders bitterly, that he is going to let Cas stew for _seventy-two hours_ before he begins the slow and excruciating delivery of his sentence?

Probably.

So Cas gives up, relaxing for the first time in almost two days, and figures he can worry about it tomorrow, when Dean may or may not actually contact him.

Naturally, as soon as he commits himself to this theory, his phone rings.

“Hello?” he answers, not bothering to look at the screen. It has to be Hester, wanting to know why he and Claire weren’t in church.

(Claire just looked at him, bags under her eyes, and asked if Cas _really_ wanted to go to church, himself. Given the answer to that question, Cas could not summon the energy to fight her.)

“Hey, Cas,” comes Dean’s cheerful greeting. “How’s it going?”

Cas’s chest seizes. _Dean._ Of course it’s Dean.

(And of course Cas didn’t imagine the deeply-compelling audio experience of that _voice_.)

“H-hello, Dean,” and oh, God, he _had_ to stammer, didn’t he? If Dean didn’t know how frazzled Cas was by this unfortunate reunion before, he certainly will _now_.

Not for the first time, Cas wonders what, ultimately, Dean wants from him.

“You sound kinda off, man, is now a bad time?”

He sounds so friendly and _concerned_ , almost like he _isn’t_ going to stand over the simmering green brew inside his cauldron and cackle malevolently the minute he hangs up.

Cas is no fool, though. Not this time.

“Not at all, Dean,” he returns smoothly. “What can I do for you?”

There’s a brief silence, and when Dean speaks again, Cas swears he can hear the amusement in his voice.

“We-ell,” he begins, and Cas braces himself. “We talked about maybe catchin’ up sometime. Mondays are rough, so I was thinking we could grab dinner and a couple of beers tomorrow evening, you know, wind down a little.”

Which, Dean’s an _idiot_ if he thinks Cas is stupid enough to fall for hi s “Oh, hello old friend, so nice to see you again, let’s catch up and be BFFs because it’s not like you utterly humiliated me and possibly broke my heart last time we spoke” act. Surely, Dean realizes that no matter how convincingly he may play the nice, charming blast-from-the-past, Cas knows better than to provide him with an y kind of opening to exact his revenge. In fact, h is plans _depend_ on Cas giving him the time of day at all , and knowing what Dean intends to do with that time ( if only vaguely), t here’s no _way_ Cas will.

“Alright. What time were you thinking?”

An hour later, Cas is still standing in the same spot he took the call from, wondering if this is the masochist’s version of an early mid-life crisis.

Mondays are always awful, but today has been especially bad.

It starts with Claire refusing to come out of her room, not even bothering to feign illness, and by the time Cas has run the gamut from desperate coaxing to cheap threats in order to arrive at some combination which results in Claire dressed, fed, and ready to go, she’s already late. Even if it didn’t disrupt Cas’s own schedule, he doesn’t want her to start the school year, or even just the week, on a bad note, and trudging into class fifteen minutes after it starts sucks. It took Cas all four years of high school to become inured to the discomfort of that kind of thing.

Still, despite the time, he waits until Claire disappears through the front doors of the school before he heads to work. _Y_ _ou can never be too careful, Castiel; predators are willing to wait for opportunities,_ Hester’s always warning him, which is good, because he agrees, but also bad, because he never used to lie awake at night worrying about his niece; nowadays, though, if he falls right to sleep, it probably means he’s drunk or someone beat him unconscious.

Anyway, Cas tries and fails not to watch the clock as drives, scrupulously obeying traffic laws because as much as Claire might hate him, he’s not sure what she would do if he got himself killed in an accident. By the time he’s surreptitiously making his way to his office, he’s almost thirty minutes tardy and more than ready for the day to be over.

He’s _just_ to the mouth of the hallway, office door within sight, when he runs into Becky, a colleague whose actual job title he has yet to figure out. Her shrill, excited greeting reveals his late entrance to the entire floor — possibly to the entire building — and even though the only person in accounting who has any authority over Cas is the actual head of the department (a woman who is more often than not tied up in meetings on a different floor), any one of his coworkers could tattle on him if it happens too often; he shuffles into his office as quickly as he can manage, hoping they’re all too preoccupied with their own personal crises to bother.

The workday is long and terrible and Cas doesn’t get as much done as he probably should, because he has a dinner da— _meeting_ — hanging over his head. What’s more, he still has no idea what, specifically, Dean’s plans _are,_ and throughout the day, Cas finds himself wondering _why_ he gave Dean his number, let alone agreed to meet him tonight.

It’s a strategic move, he reasons out. After all, he can’t very well walk around Lawrence day-after-day, peripherally terrified of Dean and what Dean’s going to do to him. The mature, adult thing to do would be to face the man head on, figure out what he wants, and handle it, so they can both get some closure and Cas can go about his business in peace.

Which sounds _great —_ very reasonable, etc. — but still leaves Cas feeling like a frog in a pot of water.

By the end of the day, he’s starting to come up with reasons to cancel, because actually, maybe he _can_ spend the next five years employing elaborate methods of hiding from Dean, and he thinks he might _just_ be about to settle on a solid plan of action (or passivity, in this case) when his cell rings.

 _LAWRENCE PUBLIC SCHOOL DISTRICT_ flashes across the screen, and Cas’s stomach drops; it takes him a moment to answer, and when he does, his hands are shaking a little.

“Yes? Hello?”

“Mr. Novak?”

“Yes. Is Claire — is everything alright?”

“Claire is perfectly fine; however, there was a somewhat concerning incident involving her at lunch today . . .”

By the time he hangs up, Cas is torn between the desire to murder his niece and hug her tight in relief for the rest of the day because she’s _okay_.

(Being guardian to a child is very confusing.)

Fortunately, Cas doesn’t have to drive down to the school and retrieve her (he doesn’t even want to know what his coworkers would say if he took off at three in the afternoon after having arrived thirty minutes late), but he is warned that the next time Claire is involved in an altercation like this, there will likely be a suspension.

For both their sakes, he hopes it doesn’t come to that; his father’s only home on weekends, nowadays, and Hester’s much better at running point when it comes to disciplinary action than when Cas was a kid. While he’s pretty sure Claire has at least another year before Hester will feel comfortable taking her to task — not that Cas intends to let her — he doubts spending the days of her suspension over there will be pleasant.

Not to mention his mother will just focus her efforts on _him_.

And perhaps she’s not wrong; maybe this _is_ Cas’s fault. Maybe there’s something he’s doing, or failing to do, that’s causing Claire to have problems. Maybe he deserves to have someone yell at him, to demand better from him.

But Cas doesn’t know what better _is;_ if he did, he’d already be doing it.

Still, he vividly remembers the fallout of his own misbehavior as a youth, and since he has no desire to repeat the experience, he’s going to have to have a talk with Claire. Hester doesn’t have to know about what happened today, but if Claire gets suspended, there will be chance of hiding it.

So Cas finishes up his workday and swings by his mother’s to pick up Claire — some carefully exchanged eye contact with his niece reassures him that Hester knows nothing of the matter — and waits until they’re safely in the car before he brings it up.

“So. Do you want to tell me what happened today?”

Claire doesn’t bother looking at him, doesn’t even shift in her seat as she sullenly watches the trees go by.

“You already know, don’t you?”

And since Cas refuses to be the sighing cliché of pseudo-parenthood he sees in so many movies, he holds his breath while he considers his next words.

“I know what I was told,” he finally starts. “But I also know from personal experience that that’s not always an accurate representation of events.”

 _That_ gets Claire’s attention.

“Wait — you got into fights?”

Cas shrugs. His siblings always used to joke that he was ‘the evil twin,’ but no one makes twin jokes anymore.

“I had a difficult childhood.”

She snorts.

“Like, how? Didn’t you always wear ties and trenchcoats?”

He arches a brow, but doesn’t take his eyes off the road.

“I’m sorry, who taught you to apply eyeliner, again?”

He swears he sees her smile in his peripheral for a moment, but it’s gone so fast he supposes it could have been a trick of the light.

“I don’t know. Maybe you did theater.”

“I wasn’t gay enough for theater.”

“Is it PC to say that?”

“Well, it’s what the theater kids told me,” he says dryly, and is gratified to see her unmistakably fighting laughter when he briefly glances over.

“Whatever.” She shrugs. “This girl called me Biker Barbie, which is totally dumb, anyway, and when I told her where to stick it, she dumped her slushie on me.”

“So you punched her.”

“Well, yeah.” Claire sniffs. “I like this jacket.”

Cas doesn’t have to look to know which jacket she’s wearing; Claire had asked Jimmy and Ames for a real leather moto-jacket for Christmas when she was Ten, and the two of them had been firmly in camp Ten-Year-Olds-Don’t-Need-Leather-Jackets. They’d driven down to Boston to help Anna move, and the jacket had been unearthed in the back of the closet, leftover from Anna’s high school days, but just a shade too snug.

Anna, not knowing any better, had easily offered it up — being in camp What’s-Wrong-With-A-Ten-Year-Old-Wearing-A-Leather-Jacket? — and after that, it was too late to do anything.

It’s still a little big, but Claire’s loved it devotedly for almost four years now, and even if Cas doesn’t condone violence, he can understand how throwing a punch seemed reasonable.

“It’s a good jacket,” he agrees, and hesitates over his next words. “Alright. I didn’t know that part of the story, so I’m glad you told me. But — if you can — try to keep your fists to yourself?”

Claire opens her mouth.

“I’m not saying I don’t understand, because I do. I’m not kidding, Claire, I was in the principal’s office constantly after I came out. That being said — nobody cares why you threw the first punch; they just punish for you doing it. And _no_ , it’s not fair when someone else starts something with you and you’re the one who gets blamed, but that’s how it is.”

“So, what? I should just let them get away with it?”

Cas shrugs.

“You use your words. And perhaps you still end up pissed off, but you’re going to be angry either way. You might as well not be angry and suspended.”

She huffs, turning to look out the window again.

“Fine. I’ll think about it. But so you know, she’s lucky I was able to clean it.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he mutters, and decides that overall, the conversation went well.

It goes slightly less well when they reach their destination and Claire realizes they’re at Anna’s place.

“Why are we at Anna’s?” she demands, narrowing her eyes.

“I thought I told you; I have . . . a meeting, tonight.”

“A meeting.” She snorts. “Like, what does that even mean? Don’t you have meetings at work?”

“It’s a different kind of meeting.”

She stares for a second, and then purses her lips.

“You have a date, don’t you.”

It’s not a question.

“I don’t have a date—" he starts, but Claire is angrily unbuckling her seatbelt and reaching for her bag.

“You do. You have a _date,_ ” she spits. “And by tomorrow you’ll probably have a girlfriend — or a boyfriend, or whatever — and you’re gonna start dumping me at Grandma’s or Anna’s or whoever’s willing to take me until —"

She cuts off, glowering at her shoes.

“Ugh, whatever. So what, am I gonna have to sleep on the sofa? You could have warned me, so I could pack a freaking bag or whatever.”

Cas _swears_ he tried to talk to her about this yesterday, but it’s always hard to know if Claire is actually listening.

“No, it’s — Claire, it’s not a date, it’s just someone I used to — to go to school with. And I’ll be back by eight. And even if I wasn’t, you’ve never had a problem with sharing with Anna before.”

“But I shouldn’t _have_ to!” she snaps . “I should be able to do my homework at home, at _my_ home _,_ and sleep in _my bed._ ”

He just barely refrains from putting his forehead to the steering wheel.

“Claire. Please. I promise you it’s not a date, I’ll be back before eight, and I won’t make a habit of it.” On some level, Cas knows he shouldn’t make promises about not dating — not that this is a date, or that he plans to _have_ dates — but Claire looks vaguely wounded amid all that anger, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what she’s worried about. “And you’re right, you shouldn’t have to be a victim of my schedule, but — that’s part of living with people. If you lived with Grandma, you’d have to work with her schedule, and if you lived with Anna, you’d have to deal with hers. I wish I could leave you by yourself, but—"

Too late, Cas realizes how that sounds, and Claire’s eyes widen.

“Claire, that’s not — I didn’t mean it like _that_ —"

But she’s already scrambling out of the car, and then the door slams shut behind her.

Numbly, Cas watches until she disappears through the front door, and then he texts Anna to warn her about what to expect.

Forty seconds later, his phone chirps, then promptly dies. He stares at it for a moment before moving his gaze to his watch.

Great. He’s already late meeting Dean.

To be honest, Dean’s a little surprised Cas agrees.

Like, he was _hopeful_ , sure; despite being prepared to go to potentially unhealthy distances in order to see his plans through, he still wasn’t looking _forward_ to having to chase Cas around town, lulling him into a false sense of security through tedious little interactions until the guy finally felt comfortable enough to accept Dean’s offer of friendship.

Still . . . he figured Cas would put up at least a _little_ bit of a fight.

Dean painstakingly inspects himself in the mirror, shrewd as he assesses the finished product. It’s been a long time since he’s either had the incentive or insecurity to actually primp, but tonight’s a special night; Dean doesn’t know if Cas’s memory is just that poor, or if his infamous high school libido has only strengthened, but on the offchance that the latter is why Cas even agreed to this in the first place, Dean’s not about to jeopardize his own interests by doing anything to deter it.

Nope, instead, he’s very, very carefully groomed himself to tousled, casual perfection, and with any luck, he’ll look good enough to reduce Cas’s higher faculties to a foggy stupor. It would help Dean’s plans a _lot_ if Cas’s higher faculties w ere stuck on the bench , actually, because unless Cas really _has_ somehow forgotten what he did to Dean, he’s going to be on the lookout for these kinds of shenanigans.

That’s fine, though; Dean’s good with challenges. It’s that give-’em-hell attitude of his, he’s sure; and really, isn’t it more poetic if Cas starts out wary? After all, that’s how _Dean_ was, when Cas first came around. It’s one of the reasons it was so embarrassing, when all was said and done; Dean had _known_ better. He’d been looking for a catch, honest-to-God _searching_ for it, sure it must be there, but Cas had worn him down, made a mess of him, and it’s only fitting that Dean should do the same now.

A part of him kind of wishes he’d asked Charlie or Jo over to okay the final product, but Dean hasn’t said a word to either of them about Cas being back in town, let alone his plans for getting back at him, and if he has his way, he’s not going to. It’s tough to say for sure, but a big part of him worries that if they knew what he was up to, past not coming over to help him plot, they might just — tell him to let sleeping dogs lie.

The thing is, they don’t _understand._ Nobody does, because the truth is, this dog doesn’t sleep; it’s been barking in his ear on and off, and usually at the least convenient times, for over ten _years_ , and _this_ — finally settling the score, finally knowing Cas understood what he’d done, finally knowing Cas was _sorry —_ this is putting the goddamn dog to rest for good.

After that — _then_ Dean will really move on. It’s not like he doesn’t want to; it’s not even like he hasn’t _tried._ He can’t, though, and he’s pretty sure he won’t be able to until he gets some fucking closure.

And he’s _also_ pretty sure a little eye-for-an-eye action is the only way he’s going to get it.

So no, he won’t tell his friends about what he’s doing, and even if they find out, he won’t let their well-meaning opinions sway his plans. This is something he just has to do, for himself, for his peace of mind, and maybe even for his future happiness.

Because what Cas did to him, as long ago as it was — it stuck, somehow. It’s followed Dean through a decade of a life that no longer included Cas, but felt haunted by his ghost nonetheless. And Dean — Dean just wants it to stop. He wants to stop thinking about it, and he wants to stop _feeling_ about it, and after years and years of ending up right back where he started in his own stupid, fucked-up head, he finally reached the conclusion that this was probably the only way to do it.

And now that he has the chance — now that Cas is _giving_ him the chance?

There’s no fucking way he’s not going to take it.

So Dean takes one final look in the mirror, decides that’s as good as it’s going to get, and heads downstairs, swiping his keys off the hall tree and starting Baby up to drive to his date.

(Or rather — his sort-of date. Like, if he actually called it a date to Cas’s face, he’s pretty sure it would be over before it began, but he can’t help but think of it as one. It’s on, whether Cas knows it yet or not, and tonight is just the first trial.)

(He sure as hell won’t be acting like he does when _Garth_ comes to town.)

Anyway, Dean feels a little guilty when he pulls into _Crossroads Bar & Grille, _ given that he’s practically bloodsworn to support Ellen’s establishment, but it’s not like he has much of a choice here. There’s not a single staff member at the _Roadhouse_ who hasn’t known him for years, and odds are good Jo or Benny’ll be around, in addition to Ellen herself. It’s pretty important that Dean be totally in control of the situation here, and as much as he loves his family, they’d probably ruin it all in about thirty seconds flat.

The Crowleys own _Crossroads,_ but Dean never figured Fergus for the sentimental type, and since he’s long gone to Europe, besides, it should be fairly neutral meeting ground despite that. And as far as Ellen goes . . . well, it’s not like he went to Tara’s place, right?

Once he’s inside, the hostess leads him to a cozy table in the corner — is that kismet or what? — and lets him know that his server will be by to check on them once his guest arrives.

Dean peruses their beer menu while he waits — it’s practically twice as expensive as Ellen’s, but what can you do — and once he’s done with that, begins fiddling with his phone so he doesn’t have to look as awkward as he feels.

By fifteen after the hour, he starts to wonder if he’s being stood up.

It could be that something totally legit came up and Cas just can’t make it or, you know, fucking _text him_ that he can’t — but t hat doesn’t stop the surge of anger he feels when he realizes that he completely failed to consider the fact that Cas might just _pretend_ to make nice and shit, and then turn around and leave him, once again, looking like an idiot in a public restaurant. For all Dean knows, Cas _never_ intended to give him a chance to get back at him, and is now standing Dean up as some kind of perverse reminder of who won this game last time.

Which — _fuck that._

At twenty after the hour, Dean’s decided there’s no way he’s going to give Cas the satisfaction of trying to text him or call him, lest Cas think he’s holding his breath or something, and he sure as _hell_ isn’t going to sit here for another hour so Cas can laugh about it later. And _s_ _hit_ — maybe Cas and Crowley are still some kind of besties, and the waitstaff has orders to watch him and report back so they can giggle to themselves across Skype because people that shitty when they were teenagers probably aren’t above that kind of petty bullshit as adults.

Dean carefully assumes a neutral expression as he slides out of the booth. There’s no need to give anybody a show, right? He’s just gotta walk out of the restaurant, make it clear it’s not a big deal — especially since he didn’t even wait that long — and that’ll be that.

He shrugs at the hostess on his way out, offering a ‘what-can-you-do’ smile-slash-grimace, and she sends back a sympathetic look.

“Have a good night, sir. We hope to see you again soon,” she calls, and he lifts a hand in acknowledgment before heading toward the revolving door.

It abruptly begins moving — and quickly, at that — just before he can step inside, and he nearly gets bowled over by the guest on their stumbling exit from the contraption.

“Sh-sorry!” a gruff voice exclaims, out-of-breath as the person lurches back to avoid slamming into him, and suddenly Dean’s vision is full of Cas, windswept and rumpled in an ill-fitting suit and that bizarre trench coat from the club, hair in charming disarray.

 _Not charming,_ he reminds himself firmly, still trying to find his bearings.

Cas, for his part, is looking back at him with wide eyes.

“Oh — Dean,” he says, then blinks. “Are you . . . leaving?”

And Dean swears his face falls a little, which . . . okay.

Dean swallows.

“Uh,” he says intelligently, then shakes himself. “I — yeah, actually. I figured you weren’t coming.”

Cas colors, and once again, Dean feels a little stupefied. It was one thing, in the club, when he knew he had the advantage and that Cas was probably _shocked_ to see him again, hence the awkwardness, but he’s had plenty of time to work through it since then. Dean figured there would be some walls up tonight, that he’d have to battle dry wit and sharp blue eyes to even make a dent toward the soft, gooey center.

(Well, the metaphorical soft, gooey center. If any part of Cas’s core is soft, it’s because it’s a pile of shit.)

(Which is another metaphor, but — fuck it, whatever. It’s not like Dean’s an English teacher or anything.)

“I’m so sorry,” Cas mumbles. “I — something came up, but my phone had died, so I couldn’t contact you, and I — how late am I?”

Dean glances at his wristwatch, still trying to figure out how to combat whatever it is Cas is doing here; while Dean had a lot of thoughts about how this might go down, he hadn’t really counted on Cas doing this . . . guileless, polite-awkward thing.

“Nearing thirty minutes,” he answers bluntly, and Cas winces, dragging a hand through his hair.

Dean stifles a laugh; _that_ certainly hasn’t changed.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he sighs, and then shuts his eyes. “I mean — sorry. Language. You’d think I’d have fixed that, with a thir—"

Cas cuts off abruptly, looking down. After a moment, during which Dean very curiously wonders what he was about to say, Cas clears his throat.

“Anyway, I . . . I assume you probably need to leave?”

Dean looks at him, searching for any sign that he’s trying to pull one over on him or something, but he can’t see it. And yeah, maybe he is, but it’s not like Dean’s letting his guard down; he can always bail later if it looks like he needs to regroup.

Cas glances up, then, meeting his eyes, and they stare at each for a long moment.

Dean suddenly feels like he’s sixteen again.

He doesn’t like it.

“Nah, not really,” he says finally, shrugging. Cas’s shoulders relax, although he doesn’t stop looking at Dean.

Dean doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Okay. Well, then . . .” he trails off, and Dean snaps to action, shoving aside all the weirdness happening inside his head. Sure, okay, there was a slight deviation to the plan; it looks like things are back on track now, though, so — you know, no problem. Dean’s got this.

“Yeah, lemme ask for the table again,” he says, offering Cas a friendly, non-threatening smile, which is tentatively returned. There’s a strange curiosity in his eyes, and Dean can feel Cas staring as he lets the hostess know they’ll be dining here after all.

He can’t decide how to interpret it — how to _feel_ about it — but that’s fine.

He should have time.

Cas has known since he agreed to meet Dean — actually, since he met Dean at _fate/fortune —_ that he wasn’t ready for this, and would probably never _be_ ready for this. It’s not like he hasn’t thought of Dean plenty over the years, imagined meeting him and getting a chance to apologize, as if that would somehow make the stupid bet incident less of an ugly blight upon his soul.

But every time he imagined it, he imagined delivering that explanation and apology to the sweet-faced, awkward sixteen-year-old he remembered.

Even if Dean _wasn’t_ clearly plotting something horrible, the fact remains that Cas has been mentally practicing to confront the child of his memories, and while he might have often wished, with residual fondness, that Dean would grow up to be everything that child had desired, not once did it occur to Cas that Dean could potentially grow up to be everything _Cas_ desired.

And yet — here they are.

Dean lightly thumbs the length of his beer, an idle movement while he contemplates the menu, but one Cas can’t seem to tear his eyes away from. Dean has large, strong hands, but they move with sure grace as they skim the menu and wrap around the bottle, and every time Cas decides he’s probably been staring at Dean’s hands long enough to definitely fall into the ‘creepy’ category, his eyes inevitably move to his face, which isn’t really safer by any standard. Certainly not for _him_ ; he hadn’t imagine d it, Friday night. Dean is honestly _the most_ beautiful person he has ever laid eyes on, and every time Cas looks at him, his brain gets fuzzy around the edges.

He’s moved carefully from the sweep of Dean’s lashes, unfortunately concealing those striking eyes, and finally made it to his lips; Cas suspects that somewhere out there, there have been sonnets written about Dean’s mouth. He used to worry for Dean that those full, plush lips would be a drawback, and while there is an unmistakable prettiness to Dean’s features, it’s not anything any sane person would complain about; his lips look right at home on his face.

Cas wishes, due to the aforementioned brain fuzziness, that his own lips could be right at home on Dean’s face at the moment.

That mouth curves suddenly.

“You know what you want?”

Cas blinks, moves his gaze back up to Dean’s eyes, which are crinkled with amusement and a glint of something else, something darker.

He swallows, and tries to remember what that question means outside the context of lurid fantasy.

“Uh. Yes. Sorry,” he mumbles, because the bulk of his brainpower is currently devoted to convincing his eyes to focus on something a little more neutral or even just, you know, not Dean’s face. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize he actually has _no idea_ what he wants to eat, but by then, their waitress has finally shown up.

She’s a petite, brunette girl, and when she does a double-take as she glances at Dean, Cas has to stop himself from nodding vigorously at her in confirmation that yes, the man is supernaturally beautiful and absolutely should come with some kind of warning.

“Huh. Winchester. Hey,” she greets him shortly.

. . . Alright. Perhaps he misinterpreted her interest. He’s probably not projecting, or anything.

Dean scowls, the nasty expression failing to detract from his appeal in the slightest.

“Ruby. Of course. So nice to see you again,” he bites out, and she smirks.

“Yeah, it’s been a while. So how’s that brother of yours, Dean?”

“Still well rid of you,” he retorts, and she rolls her eyes, turning to look at Cas. She studies him for a second, and then flashes a sharp, charming smile.

“Well, hey there. You the new flavor of the week?”

Dean shoots him an alarmed look, like he thinks Cas will have some unpleasant opinions about this suggestion, and Cas nearly laughs.

He should be so fucking lucky.

“No, just a former acquaintance,” he explains, offering a small smile.

“An old friend,” Dean corrects him, catching Ruby’s eye and baring his teeth a little. She sighs.

“Yeah, no drama here, folks,” she mutters, then pastes a smile on her face. “ _Anyway,_ thanks for comin’ in, guys, what can I get you?”

Dean orders some western monstrosity with extra bacon and extra patty, a concept Cas would find revolting but is instead charmed by when he remembers Dean’s youthful efforts to consume as much protein as he could get.

“And for Columbo?”

It takes him a moment to realize she’s talking to him, though he’s heard that one before, and of course, he’s been too distracted to actually figure out what he wanted to order.

“Uh . . . the burger.”

“The burger,” she repeats, unimpressed. “Wanna tell me which one?”

“Oh, of course. The, um, the first one.”

She narrows her eyes, putting a finger on his menu and dragging it toward herself; she doesn’t break her glare, even as she flips it open to the burger page.

Cas swallows.

“Ah, yes. The . . . Bacon Bison Worcestershire.”

“Cool, one heart attack waiting to happen and a Big Bad Wolf comin’ up.” She shoots Dean a mocking grin. “Does that make you Little Red Riding Hood?”

“Once upon a time,” he quips, then nearly seems to wince. He clears his throat, frowning at her. “Well, shoo fly.”

She huffs.

“Like, you know I serve your food, right?”

Dean pauses.

“I meant fly as a compliment,” he deadpans, and with one last derisive snort, Ruby sails away.

Not that Cas is more than peripherally aware of it, because his stomach sank into the abyss around the same time Dean effectively confirmed Ruby’s awful comparisons. And _fine,_ it’s not as though Cas even entertained the possibility that the bet could have become some distant, unimportant memory for Dean — he left the bar Friday night fully prepared for Dean to try and mete out whatever justice he saw fit — but it still stings. He’s not sure if it was the stress of the day or inappropriate nostalgia or even some instinctive blindness triggered by Dean, well, looking the way he does, but Cas was deeply disappointed when he thought Dean might leave earlier, and since then, he’s strangely enjoyed sitting across from him, just . . . staring.

He steals a glance at Dean, who has apparently been watching him with curious eyes.

“Everything okay, Cas?”

Which — he _knows_ it’s not. He’s obviously just doing this — is even here at all — with the express purpose of tormenting Cas, and even if he weren’t, two people can never be okay with each other after something like that, no matter how many years pass. And maybe this is supposed to be the part where Cas breaks down and offers up a teary, heartfelt apology, and Dean either gets uncomfortable or angry, either tears into him with his words or simply walks out and leaves him behind. A part of Cas _wants_ to, if he’s being honest, regardless of how Dean reacts; a part of him has been anxious to speak about this — to the person he actually hurt — for more than a decade, and the weight of the words and feelings is almost too much to hold back.

But Dean _sounds_ genuinely concerned, and even if he isn’t, even if the idea of potentially spending weeks more playing this game with him, of having him silently shove the past in Cas’s face without leaving him any good opening to talk about it or make amends kind of makes Cas want to weep from preemptive exhaustion — he can’t make himself bring it up first.

He should — should settle this, once and for all — but he can’t.

 _Because you’re still a coward,_ his brain helpfully points out, and he has no argument to return.

“I’m fine,” he says weakly, reaching for his beer. Dean watches him drink, utterly unabashed, and it’s so distracting Cas accidentally downs half the bottle.

“Long day?” Dean asks, raising a brow, and Cas tries not to blush.

“You could say that.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

 _Yes._ He actually does. He wants to complain to some sympathetic ear — to someone who is neither sharing in his suffering or liable to feel like it’s their responsibility to fix it — about all the stupid little things he’s struggling with, and then he wants to talk about the big things he can’t even acknowledge most days but hang heavy across his shoulders nonetheless.

A part of him even wants that sympathetic ear to be Dean’s.

But that’s not feasible.

“It’s fine,” he says instead, mustering a smile. Dean rolls his eyes.

“Dude, you have super-not-fine stamped all over you. C’mon. Bad day at work? Trouble at home? I’m a pretty good listener, Cas.”

That’s true. Cas was always bad at talking, and that hasn’t changed, but he remembers that Dean really was good at listening, both to the things you said and the things you didn’t.

Of course, this is _probably_ just Dean’s way of gathering ammunition to use against him later, because he doesn’t actually care about Cas’s problems, so there’s also _that._

“Bad start to the day,” he says reluctantly. “It’s a new job — my second week — and I came in late. And . . . well, family drama, this evening. So I was late getting here, as you know.”

Dean _clearly_ wants to ask, but evidently decides to restrain himself.

“No stranger to that,” is all he says. “What do you do for work?”

“I’m an accountant.”

“Yeah? Where at?”

“451Games,” he answers, and glances sheepishly at the table. “I don’t really know much about video games, to be honest, but they said it didn’t matter as much for my department.”

When he looks up again, Dean has a weird expression on his face.

“You’re — working at Charlie’s company?”

“Charlie?” Cas echoes, although his brain has already returned a result; he remembers Charlie Bradbury, sunny redhead and Dean’s very best friend.

And, apparently, Cas’s boss.

Maybe not the one he _directly_ reports to, but . . .

Dread pricks at his skin.

Dean surely has some kind of creative _emotional_ trauma planned for him, right? There’s no way he’d call in a favor and interfere with his employment, or anything like that.

Right?

It occurs to Cas that he maybe should have researched the company before applying, because it was a little pathetic to be two weeks in and still not know its history, but honestly, he’d been desperate enough that it probably wouldn’t have mattered. It’s entirely likely he could have contacted Bela or Crowley and they’d have arranged a position for him somewhere, but Cas doesn’t even want to contemplate what circumstances would have to be for him to do that.

“Charlie Bradbury — you remember her, red h—"

“Yes. Yes, I remember. I — I didn’t realize it was her company.”

Dean shrugs.

“Well, shouldn’t make a difference,” he says, and Cas has no idea what that means.

“No,” he agrees, and picks at the label of his beer. He’s tempted to finish it and request another, but it’s probably better if he doesn’t get drunk on his first outing with Dean.

He frowns. _First_ outing? Wasn’t he supposed to just determine what Dean wanted, so he wouldn’t have to worry about ‘next time’?

He tries to figure out how to ask, without actually bringing up what he did to Dean last time they knew each other.

“Hm?”

Cas looks up at the sound, and Dean is regarding him with interest.

“What?”

“You looked pretty deep in contemplation there, Cas,” he chuckles, and suddenly reaches across the table to touch a finger to Cas’s forehead.

Cas can feel the crease relax as surprise overtakes him, and Dean grins.

“That’s better.”

Numbly, Cas lifts a hand to his own forehead — a childish move, if he thinks about it, but not a lot of thought is happening for him right now.

Dean laughs again, humor tinged with what looks like fondness, though it’s likely just some deliberate trick to lure Cas into a false sense of security.

Cas clears his throat.

“Dean,” he starts, and Dean lifts a brow. “Not that — not that it isn’t — nice, to see you again, but I . . .”

“Yeah? You tryin’ to ditch me early or something?” Dean jokes, and Cas feels something inside of him waver.

Dean is pretending they don’t have a completely terrible history with one another, and yes, it’s probably so he can pull the rug right out from under Cas’s feet later, but — in some ways, it’s also nice. It doesn’t happen often, anymore — worse things have happened since then — but Cas still has the occasional nightmare about that day in the diner, and even if he didn’t, it’s a deeply unpleasant feeling knowing someone somewhere in the world sincerely hates you.

But to have Dean act like this — like they really are just old classmates, maybe even old friends — it makes _Cas_ want to pretend, too.

It’s a dangerous feeling to have.

“Of course not,” he says quietly. “I was just surprised you wanted to . . . catch up.”

Dean frowns, drumming his fingers against the table. For a moment, he looks as troubled as Cas feels, and then his expression evens out.

“You know that was a long time ago, right?”

Cas blinks.

“Not so long,” he hedges.

Dean shrugs.

“Long enough. I mean, we were kids, right?”

One of Cas’s father’s favorite sayings, which he likes to repeat, often, is that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

The proven gospel of that statement is the only thing that keeps Cas from tumbling headfirst into a lie he wants so badly he can taste it. More get-togethers after work, like this; texts back and forth every day, all the texts they were forbidden in high school, stupid ones about people they knew and thoughts they had and whatever other random daily occurrences they faced; that warm grin waiting for him every now and then, a bright spot amid the endless grey that has so long hung over every inch of his life.

Not for the first time, or the last, Cas is mad at his dad.

“Not that long,” he counters quietly, and squints at Dean.

Dean looks back at him for a long, weighty moment — and then he grins.

“Well, that hasn’t changed.”

“What?” Cas asks, but Dean just shakes his head.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He pauses, and then Cas feels a soft nudge against his foot. Dean’s looking at him, eyes serious. “I mean it, Cas. Don’t worry about it.”

It’s impossible — he knows that — but now more than ever, he wishes it were really that simple.

Clearly, Cas doesn’t believe him.

It’s fucking obvious, the way he stares at Dean with big, sad blue eyes, and he’s an idiot if he thinks those solemn, angsty looks will change anything; although Dean has to admit, if he were a weaker, more foolish person, maybe they might.

That’s okay, though, because at the very least, Dean’s pretty sure Cas won’t bring it up again. Nor does Dean want him to. As much as he’s enjoying the fact that their reunion is probably making Cas feel guilty as fuck, he doesn’t want to tiptoe around a bunch of conversational landmines when the whole point of this venture is to make Cas feel so safe and smitten he fails to see the obvious before it happens.

Because Cas deserves to find out what it feels like to _know_ better, and do it anyway.

And then he deserves to find out how it feels when it all goes up in flames, and he’s left feeling broken and worthless and like he’s just stupid enough to have deserved it.

Dean grins at Ruby when she arrives with their food, and maybe some of that inner savagery is coming through, because she takes a step back.

“Big Bad and Little Red,” she declares, sliding their plates onto the table with a wary glance at Dean. “You guys want a couple more?”

She gestures to their empty beers, and Dean glances at Cas, who shakes his head.

“I have to drive,” he says, and Dean nods his agreement.

“Well, then, enjoy,” Ruby says, all fake cheer. She winks at Dean. “No, really, Winchester; enjoy.”

She saunters away, and Dean frowns at his plate.

“She spat in it, didn’t she?”

Cas hesitates.

“She’s — a longtime acquaintance?”

“Sam’s stupid high school girlfriend,” Dean grumbles, refusing to go down that rabbit hole tonight. Cas might not go out with him again if he launches into an hour long rant about how Ruby is probably actually the spawn of Satan, no really, here’s why.

“I’m sure it’s all bluster, then,” Cas offers, probably meaning to be reassuring, but also clearly not understanding how crazy Ruby is.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, and figures since there’s not really anything he can do about it, he might as well just enjoy his burger. It’s probably not _poisoned._

“How is Sam?” Cas asks then, and Dean brightens a little.

It’s not any of Cas’s business to care about how Dean’s little brother is, because he fucked Sam over a little, too, but Dean likes talking about Sam, and he’d intended for the outing to basically simulate a date, even if he couldn’t call it that, which means they’re headed in the right direction with this.

“Kid’s good,” Dean says, once he’s finished swallowing the bite he took. In retrospect, a burger might not actually have been the best choice; normally, Dean’s not too self-conscious about how he eats, but one of Cas’s motivating factors for being here is basically how pretty Dean is, and he doesn’t want to put the guy off with his table manners. “He just started his second year of law school.”

Cas looks suitably impressed.

“I remember him being very bright.”

“Pretty sure he’s a genius,” Dean agrees, and even though he knows he tends to get carried away once he’s gotten going, he can’t resist launching into a rundown of all Sam’s nerdy badassery through high school and college, spurred on when Cas simply nods along with wide eyes, perfectly attentive.

“That’s wonderful,” he says, once Dean decides he probably covered it all. He looks oddly wistful. “You and your father must have been proud.”

Dean shrugs.

“He, uh, he passed away a while back, didn’t really get to see most of it.” He cracks a small smile. “Think he would’ve been more impressed by how big Sammy got.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Cas says quietly, and to his credit, it sounds like he means it. He looks at Dean, face so solemn Dean almost asks if something happened to his dad, too, but he doesn’t really want to get into this tonight (or, you know, ever).

Almost like he can sense Dean’s thoughts, Cas looks away, taking a sip of his water.

“What do you mean, when you say ‘how big Sammy got?’”

“Oh.” Dean grins. “I have a sasquatch for a brother, now.”

“Which means . . .?”

Dean digs his phone out of his pocket, flipping through his pictures until he finds one from Sam’s graduation. It’s not perfect — it’s difficult to get the full impact of Sam’s dumb, girly hair beneath the graduation cap — but it’s a pretty good comparison between their heights.

Cas’s brows shoot up.

“That — that’s _Sam_?”

“Yup,” Dean agrees, allowing himself to bask in the reaction. Sam’s not here, so Dean’s under no obligation to grumble and complain about being the short one. It’s not like it’s not a _little_ annoying, but more than anything, Dean is endlessly entertained by Sam’s giant, gangling frame.

Cas just stares, awestruck, at the picture.

“He’s bigger than _you_.”

Which, okay, that seems like kind of a weird thing to say, but Dean _does_ look a lot different than he used to.

“Yeah, I don’t know which change was more surprising,” he jokes.

“Sam’s,” Cas says immediately, not looking away from the picture, and the question of what Cas means by it is suddenly burning a hole in Dean’s pocket.

Except — he’s not sixteen anymore, terrified of fucking shit up with a guy hopelessly out of his league.

He can just _ask._

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cas looks up, blinking a couple of times.

“What?”

“Why’s Sam’s more surprising?”

“I . . .” Cas swallows. “I mean, I had always thought that you would . . .”

He trails off, like Dean ought to know how that sentence ends, and it pisses Dean off. The only way he could possibly know that is if Cas is trying to suggest he actually meant any of the crap he said to encourage Dean, way back when, which is — well, it’s bullshit, is what it is.

Dean narrows his eyes. It _is_ bullshit — the kind of bullshit a horrible, ruthlessly manipulative person might try and spin as a defensive maneuver when they knew judgment day was just around the corner.

Cas suddenly looks uncomfortable, probably because Dean has started glaring at him.

Fucking _great_.

“Of course, you still managed to surpass expectations,” Cas mumbles, and then quickly takes a bite of his burger, avoiding Dean’s gaze.

Because it’s _awkward_ again, and Dean glowering at him from across the table sure as hell isn’t going to help Cas forget that Dean has every reason to hate him.

And that, right there, is why he needs Cas to think it’s all water under the bridge; they can’t talk about the past. They can’t, because when they talk about the past, Dean swears he has fucking flashbacks, and he forgets that he’s supposed to be courting Cas or whatever because he’s just so _angry_ about what already happened. And scowling at the dude while the both of yyou contemplate the disastrous ending to your former relationship — fake relationship? — is not exactly a great way to dazzle him and sweep him off his feet.

He wracks his brain for a way to salvage this, mostly coming up empty, except—

Well. That’s . . . not really how he wanted to play this — it doesn’t exactly come naturally to him — but it’s not a _terrible_ idea . . .

“Sorry,” he says gruffly, forcing himself to fidget with his napkin a little. “It just — that had meant a lot to me. That you said that. So it, uh, kinda sucked, when it turned out to be a lie.”

And now Cas, eager for absolution, can claim he totally _did_ mean it all, and Dean will bat his pretty green eyes, pretending to be all embarrassed and pleased, and Cas will get some kind of reward system going in his brain, one that’ll make him want to keep proving himself to Dean. Dean doesn’t love it, since he was kind of planning on more aggressive tactics that gave him a little bit more control over the situation, but — he can do both. It’s probably better if he does.

Most importantly, though, Dean doesn’t want to lose his chance to do this at all.

Cas freezes.

And then he’s silent for a long moment, long enough that Dean wonders if maybe he isn’t even going to bother, before he finally speaks.

“I understand,” he says quietly, staring at his plate. “I would have assumed that, as well. You — you have every right to be upset.”

Dean waits, but Cas just picks up his burger and takes another bite.

Like that’s it. That’s just — all he has to say.

Dean finds himself disappointed, and not just because Cas didn’t follow his part of the script.

So he doesn’t say anything, either, and they eat in silence while Dean struggles to regroup. The night isn’t going anything like how he expected or wanted it to, and he’s starting to feel weird and off-kilter to boot. It’s a bad situation all around, and he would think he should have spent more time planning things, but he knows that’s not the issue.

The issue — as was always the issue — is Cas.

And since not even his younger self actually _knew_ Cas, as it turned out, or how to read him — how to handle him, after eleven years of low-key obsessing over him, Dean’s going to have to actually get to know the guy — for real, this time.

He quietly takes a breath. Alright, so — there’s a learning curve. That’s fair. He didn’t expect this to be _easy,_ after all. The fact that Cas is sitting across him at all, that Dean isn’t going to have to loiter around Charlie’s headquarters trying to wear him down just to get to this point in the first place, is kind of a miracle.

Only a dumbass lets a miracle go to waste, and Dean Winchester is not a—

Uh. Well. Anyway.

He steals a glance at Cas, who is mechanically finishing off his burger, side of fries still totally untouched.

Dean cocks his head and forgets strategy for a moment.

“Aren’t you gonna eat those?”

Cas looks up, startled.

“Uh — did you want them?”

“No, I just — you haven’t touched ‘em.”

Cas shrugs, gaze sliding away.

“I thought I’d save them.”

 _For what_? Dean almost asks. Because seriously, it’s going on seven o’ clock now, and the only reason Dean can think of for not eating your fries at the restaurant, only to pretty much go straight home and eat them afterward, is if you’re trying to get out of there in a hurry.

Which means you probably aren’t going to want to go out again.

_Shit._

“Ouch,” Dean mutters, hoping his face is more smile than grimace. “But hey, I guess I am the one who brought it up.”

Blue eyes meet his once again, visibly confused.

“What?”

Dean arches a brow.

“You’d rather finish your dinner at home. I can add two and two, Cas,” he chuckles, trying for self-deprecating. It’s a cheap shot, but — but he _needs_ Cas to give him a chance. There’s no fucking way Dean can just leave things here. Hell, it’d be better if they’d never met again at all than to just stop here. Dean still doesn’t know why Cas came back, why he dresses like that, why he looks so tired and worn out, even if he is still beautiful; hell, Dean doesn’t know what he thinks about everything that happened back in high school.

If he even thinks about it, at all.

And Dean _needs_ to know _,_ even more than he thought he did. So no, Cas can’t just . . . duck out after dinner and avoid him. Shit, he _owes_ Dean this.

Dean realizes he’s staring, waiting anxiously for Cas’s reaction, and Cas is just squinting back.

“Why . . . would I finish my dinner at home?”

Dean blinks.

“Uh. Because — I kinda made things awkward. So you probably — y’know, wanna get out of here.”

Abruptly, Cas laughs.

It’s not a happy laugh, but it’s not unfriendly either, and Dean finds himself running unusually short on patience as he waits for Cas to explain himself.

“Dean,” he says at last, shaking his head. “I’m fairly certain, when it comes down to it, _I’m_ the one who made things awkward in the first place.”

Cas’s tone is dry, but unmistakably meaningful, and — well, he’s not wrong.

Dean shrugs.

“Yeah, and I told you, that — it was a long time ago. And then I brought it up again.”

“Hm.” Cas lets out a sigh. “That’s . . . magnanimous of you. But it’s bound to come up, Dean.”

His voice is oddly gentle, if a little tired-sounding, and Dean throws him a stubborn look.

“Okay, fine. Then let it come up.”

Cas frowns at him, and Dean crosses his arms.

“We’ll work it out,” he adds, daring Cas with his eyes, and receives a pained expression for his trouble.

“Why do you want to?” Cas asks, unexpectedly blunt, and Dean hesitates.

“Well,” he starts, thinking. “Can I be totally honest with you?”

Cas nods, shoulders drooping a little.

“If you would.”

Dean takes a moment to find his words; Cas looks increasingly agitated as he waits, a tired sort of apprehension growing in his face, and it — it’s weird to see.

It’s weird, and it’s not, because sometimes, back in the day, Cas would sport this drained, worn-out look, like he was just dragging himself along, and it was such a stark, disturbing change from his usual fire that Dean used to think he’d do anything to fix it. Of course, he couldn’t do much, but those were the days he just wanted to hold onto Cas, because if he didn’t, nobody else would.

Or at least, that’s what he _thought_. Cas didn’t need that from Dean, maybe didn’t actually need that from anyone. Certainly, whatever Dean did probably made no difference.

But Sam’s always said Dean is the true bleeding heart, and maybe he’s right, because Dean doesn’t enjoy seeing Cas look like that here half as much as he should.

“Thing is, Cas,” he tells him, drawing his focus back. “Apart from the whole — you know. The bet — you were actually a really good friend to me. And yeah, that — that was a long time ago, and it’s true that I felt like crap about it for a real long time after. But — I mean, that’s kinda why I wanted to be friends now. Everything that happened, it’s — it’s this shitty memory, for me, and I don’t wanna see you all over town and still have all these bad feelings between us. And sure, you pretty much screwed me over before, but that was then, and as long as your friends aren’t placing any weird bets about it . . . I figure now, you’ll make an okay pal.”

He looks Cas in the eye the whole time he says it, even though it’s a little more difficult than he expects, and Cas looks right back — even though he’s clearly uncomfortable in those same, difficult spots.

And then the second miracle happens.

Cas stares at him, face unreadable, for what feels like an eternity after Dean’s finished speaking, and then he nods.

“Okay,” he almost whispers, voice considerably less sure than his gaze. “I’d like that.”

Just like that.

Dean swallows. The night hasn’t gone anything like how he expected, and Cas outright agreeing to give this a shot (not that he knows what all Dean means by ‘pal’) is throwing him for a loop, too.

“Okay,” Dean echoes. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

Cas just nods.

“Thank you,” he says, and Dean stares dumbly back at him.

“So . . . then . . . do you wanna go out this weekend?”

The invitation is met with a slow blink.

“Alright.”

“Cool.” He glances down at his empty plate. “I know some good new places.”

“Alright,” Cas says again.

“They’re not _new_ new, though; just . . . new since you lived here.”

“I surmised.”

Dean cracks a smile, at that, because Cas is the kind of person who _surmises_ shit.

“Yeah. I think you’ll like ‘em.”

There’s a strange, warm glowy thing happening in Dean’s chest, and he decides to call it _victory,_ although it feels kind of familiar, and not in the way victory usually does.

“I’ll try anything once,” Cas offers, and now Dean can’t help himself.

He winks.

“I’ll hold you to that,” he counters, and _hell yes,_ Cas actually _blushes._

Things are back on track.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** SPOILERS **
> 
> References to Light Violence Between Minors: Another student calls Claire ‘Biker Barbie’ at lunch (I believe Alex said that in canon, though it’s not supposed to be Alex here), and when Claire retorts in kind, the girl pours her slushie on Claire’s jacket; Claire punches her. Violence, obviously, is not the answer, but one could make a case for throwing things or, in this case, pouring things on someone and causing damage to their belongings, to be an assault of some form, and while it may not warrant a punch, it was nasty and it is unfair for Claire to be the only one to get in trouble. Still, Cas’s response may seem like he condones that violence in some way, and is only asking her to refrain to avoid getting in trouble; while I think he’s very sympathetic to Claire lashing out, and the injustice of the situation, his primary goal here is to discourage her from getting into fights in the future, and passing judgment/lecturing her didn’t seem particularly constructive to him.
> 
> As for the school’s failure to suspend her – you may assume the student was not seriously hurt, and the school, being aware of Claire’s situation, is also trying to be understanding. My own experience in school was that ‘zero tolerance’ policies were either mostly for show or on a case-by-case basis - though I suppose that was a long time ago, and things may have changed. In any case, I apologize if that seems problematic or troubling to anyone.


	11. Part II: just go with it, just go with it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: more problematic, petty thoughts from Dean (details in the notes), some pretty savage opinions about dessert (bear in mind, character opinions are not author opinions; I am a _huge_ fucking slut for muffins), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading ♡ I hope you’re all hanging in there, and please enjoy!

> _What did you think about me the second that you saw me?_
> 
> _What did I think about you? Baby, I thought of everything_
> 
> _Spending more time than I should_
> 
> _I sound like you – I knew I would_
> 
> _In the wrong place at the same time_
> 
> _I’m out of my mind . ._ _._
> 
> _\- I Got You, Amy Shark_

Rationally, Cas knows this is one gift-horse he should inspect top to bottom, because it’s almost certainly full of Greek soldiers. Staying rational here is a struggle, however, because the gift-horse also happens to be really, _really_ pretty.

(Not to mention it smiles like someone who used to care about Cas, in a way no one else has ever quite managed.)

It’s turning into a dilemma, although it shouldn’t be. Reality is rather simple; Cas did something horrible to Dean, and Dean wants revenge. And Dean can deliver as many well-crafted-yet-calculatedly-blunt speeches as he wants, but Cas lives in reality, and in reality, two things can happen when you have a history like theirs: Dean could just ignore him, _or_ he could try and get back at him.

_Therefore_ , he must be trying to get back at him.

Which leaves Cas — a rational person existing in reality — to politely, but firmly, tell Dean where he can stick it, because as guilty as he might feel, he’s certainly not guilty enough to play some lengthy, drawn-out game which almost certainly ends in a great deal of suffering and heartache on his part.

(Especially now that he’s met Dean again. Grown-up Dean, combined with all of Cas’s wistful, fond memories of kid Dean, leads him to believe that that suffering and heartache will not be insignificant _._ )

Given his clear understanding of the issue, Cas is more than a little confused as to how he ends up bidding Dean good night with plans to meet that weekend.

Perhaps the fact that Dean just stands there and looks into his eyes for at least a full minute has something to do with it; Cas can’t even claim surprise at how green Dean’s eyes are, because that’s one thing that’s no different from before, and it tripped him up then, too.

No, the greater issue was the way those eyes were looking at him, different from how Cas remembered, but eerily familiar nonetheless. Dean still watches him a little uncertainly (though perhaps it’s a different kind of uncertain), but more than that, Dean looks at him like he’s _searching_ him. It used to be like a thorough, if occasionally suspicious, study, a general pursuit of understanding, but now it seems more like Dean’s after something specific.

Cas shouldn’t be giving him the chance to find it, but he can’t help it. When Dean looks at him, it feels like something he’s been waiting for, and he doesn’t know what to make of that.

And perhaps that’s the real reason Cas is going to meet Dean at some kind of cafe Saturday afternoon. There is a part of Cas, one that has stubbornly weathered the years since last they met, that never quite came to terms with what happened before; a part that believes in the kind of stupid, fantastic things that teenagers do; and that part wants some kind of closure.

_Or a chance._

He brushes the thoughts aside. He has the rest of the week to change his mind, if he needs to, and in the meantime, the rest of his _life_ isn’t going to put itself on hold just because Dean Winchester might have grown up to be everything Cas worries he’s ever wanted.

He knocks on Anna’s door, not sure what to expect and not hoping for much either, and a few minutes later, his sister answers.

“Hey,” she says, smiling at him. “Are you coming in to tell me about your date or what?”

Cas hesitates.

“It wasn’t a date,” he protests, and Anna rolls her eyes.

“Then why did Claire sulk for an hour?”

He looks away.

“I . . . accidentally said something. That she misinterpreted.”

Anna’s expression shifts, concern creeping in.

“Cas. What did you say?”

He looks down.

“She was angry with me, because my, uh, appointment, meant she couldn’t spend the evening at home. I was trying to explain that when you live with other people, you have to work with their schedules, and I — I _meant_ to say that I wished she could do as she pleased, without being inconvenienced by others, but it — it came out wrong.” He sighs heavily. “I said I wished I could just leave her by herself.”

Anna winces.

“Oh, Cas.”

“Yes. I know. Especially since she was already worried I was going to start dating and leave her behind.”

Anna presses a palm to her forehead, then folds her arms.

“Well — you’d better set things straight.”

“I can certainly try,” he agrees weakly, and she pats him on the back.

“Yeah. Do that. But also, Cas?”

“Yes?”

His sister grins.

“I still want to hear about your date.”

_Damn it._

“Oh, but — Claire was so anxious to get home . . .”

“I’m sure, but she and Val are watching _Cutthroat Kitchen_ and _also_ my baby brother had his first date this decade, so I think we have time.”

“It was _not_ my first date this decade.”

“So it _was_ a date!” she crows, and Cas pushes past her, heading for the kitchen.

“No, it _wasn’t,_ I was just saying—"

“Right, that’s nice, Cas. So was this the guy from the club?”

“Yes, but—"

“God, but he was _pretty_. I think Valencia’s still waiting to hear back on bro code for this one. How do you know him, really?”

“I went to high school with him,” Cas hedges, not even touching the bro code thing. _Cas_ isn’t even going to get to date Dean; like hell is Valencia allowed to. “That’s basically it.”

Anna studies him for a long moment.

Then she lets out a snort.

“Right. Okay. I can’t _make_ you tell me—"

“Won’t stop you from trying,” he mutters, finally pulling out a juice box. Why the hell do his sister and best friend stock their fridge and pantry with food designed for _children_?

“But I can let you know that you’re a terrible liar, and by _not_ telling me, you leave it one-hundred-percent to my imagination. Just so you know.”

Cas shrugs.

“I’m fine with that.”

Her brows lift.

“Wow.”

“May I go collect Claire?”

“Nope. You didn’t actually tell me about tonight. Where’d he take you?”

Cas doesn’t bother to correct her.

“Crossroads Bar & Grille.”

She lets out a hum of approval.

“Casual, but classy. And what did you talk about?”

_Oh, the usual first date stuff, like how a decade ago my friends and I pulled a breathtakingly cruel prank on him_ _and I probably broke his heart_ _and scarred him for life_ _._

“We just . . . caught up.”

Cas frowns. It’s not a lie, exactly; Cas knows Dean lost his father, and he knows what Sam’s been up to. But he doesn’t know _when_ that happened, or how Dean got into teaching, or much of anything, really.

And maybe he doesn’t need to — maybe he doesn’t _deserve_ to — but he wants to.

“Uh-huh. What about flirting?”

He thinks of Dean winking at him after their tentative agreement to try out this friendship thing.

_I’ll hold you to that._

“No,” he answers shortly. He has no business flirting with Dean, anyway. Not only does Dean not actually want anything to do with Cas, even if he _did,_ Cas could never do it. He could never _date_ Dean, for real, after what happened.

Again, not that that’s on the table, so it doesn’t even merit consideration.

“Liar,” Anna says, oblivious to his distress. “But fine, don’t tell me; I’m just happy you’re . . .”

He gives her a warning look, and she shrugs.

“Interacting with the world again.”

“Right,” he sighs, and with another brief smile, his sister pushes away from the counter and heads for the hallway.

“Well, come on, then,” she says.

They make it halfway up the stairs before she starts again.

“Cas,” she says, and by her tone, he knows this isn’t just an idle thought. “Have you thought about moving in with us?”

He frowns, but she doesn’t even turn to look at him.

“Anna, I can manage my rent just—"

“No, no, no,” she protests, finally pivoting once she’s made it into the hallway. “It’s not about that. I just — I mean, I get why you didn’t want to move in with Mom, but . . . Hannah’s at school, which leaves us with two guest rooms, which is — you know, ridiculous, but neither Val or I want to move. And I just think — it’s really good, that you’re going out. Whether on dates or just to see other people, it — it’s good. And if you lived with us, Claire wouldn’t have to go somewhere else for a babysitter, and you could feel more comfortable . . . well, doing whatever.”

He’s already shaking his head by the time she’s finished.

“Anna, I — I appreciate the offer, I do, and yes, sometimes I feel — overwhelmed. But Claire — she knows Jimmy wanted me to take care of her. And I’m aware of my limitations, which is why we’re here in the first place, but — she’s already so sensitive, about everything, and I don’t want her to think I’m trying to use other people as a buffer so I don’t have to deal with her. She _already_ feels like that. If we moved in with you or mom, I don’t think she’d trust that I wasn’t planning to dump her there and leave, and when she’s upset, she avoids me, and then we might not talk at all, and I might—"

He stops, taking a breath.

_I might lose her._

Claire might end up asking Anna for help with her homework every night, might spend all her free time watching reality cooking shows with Valencia, and Cas will just slowly fade into the background, a silent witness as everyone else finally moves on with their lives and he’s forced to face the truth of his own uselessness.

And that would be fine, if Jimmy had asked the family to take care of her, but he hadn’t; he’d asked Cas to. And perhaps Cas has a huge blind spot, here, is maybe still dealing with all the nasty psychological fallout of his losses, but he has yet to be convinced that foisting Claire off onto Anna or Mom would be any better for _her,_ and until he is — he refuses to give up.

Anna steps forward, squeezes her arm.

“I know, Cas. It’s okay. I understand, I just — I worry about you, too, that you’re so determined to be there for her you’re closing yourself off to everything else.”

“I fail to see the issue,” he mumbles.

“Cas. Come on. You can’t do that forever, and even if you could, Claire needs a full human looking after her. Or something like it, anyway. Kids are — they’re sensitive, and if you’re half a walking corpse . . . at the very least, you need to set a good example.”

He scowls at the floor, uncertain how to respond to that. The hardest part about being guardian to a child, he often thinks, is the not knowing. You can be willing to do anything, to go without sleep, to cross oceans, to fight armies, _anything —_ but you still can’t be sure what a child actually needs.

And no matter what choice you make, you always worry it was the wrong one.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally agrees. “But I don’t — I don’t think we’re ready for that. And if I bring it up with Claire, especially now, she’s going to think—"

Anna holds up a hand.

“Say no more. We can . . . we can talk about it another time. Maybe closer to Christmas, when she’s out of school, and she’s feeling more . . . comfortable.”

He nods. He honestly doesn’t have much more to say on the subject, and his sister gives his arm another squeeze.

“Alright,” she sighs. “Let’s go find your wayward charge, then. It’s getting close to bedtime.”

They knock on the door to Valencia’s room, and Cas tries not to be offended at how surprised Claire looks to see him.

“You’re early,” she blurts out.

“I did say _before_ eight.”

“Yeah, but I thought—" she shuts her mouth, looking away. “Well, I wasn’t expecting you. Can we finish our episode?”

“How much time is left on it?”

Val fiddles with the remote, bringing up the progress bar.

“About twenty minutes?”

Cas nods.

“Alright. Ah,” he starts, remembering. “Claire, I saved my fries for you. Do you want them while you finish watching?”

Claire perks up a little, at that, enough to chase away Cas’s doubts about giving her a serving of french fries right before bed.

“You did?” A shadow crosses her face. “Didn’t your date think that was weird?”

“My _friend_ was fine.” Which is sort of a lie, but not one he has the energy to feel bad about or explain right now. “And if a date has a problem with that, then that just means they’re not a very good date, doesn’t it?”

Strangely, Claire looks away, fidgeting with the comforter a little.

“Okay. Yes, please,” she adds quietly, and Cas has to quickly turn toward the door to hide the smile.

Claire hasn’t used _please_ or _thank you_ with him in probably a year, even though that’s how she was raised and it must be taking a concentrated effort not to ever let them out.

He darts out to the car to fetch the styrofoam container, detouring back to the kitchen to wrap them in paper towel and heat them up a little, and then returns to Valencia’s room, plate in hand.

Claire tucks in eagerly, eyes bright.

“Sweet. Grandma never lets me eat outside of the kitchen.”

“Yeah, well, way worse things have happened to this bedding,” Val mutters, and three pairs of horrified eyes turn her way. She blinks.

“Oh, shit, you’re old enough to get that now; my bad,” she notes apologetically, but Claire just starts laughing and offers her a french fry.

Cas tries not to stare, even though this is pretty much the best mood he’s seen Claire in in months, because he doesn’t want to make her self-conscious and jinx it.

And when the episode ends, he thinks they’re both disappointed it’s a school night and they can’t stay for just one more.

Dean, as it happens, is going to date the _shit_ out of Cas.

He’s pretty fucking amped for the next weekend, and though it’s only the first full week of school and his classes are largely unfamiliar with him, even his students notice. A blonde, coltish kid in his eighth-grade English class is obviously zoning out, eyes glued to the window pane, and Dean startles her with a sunny, “Gorgeous day out, huh?”; she snaps at him in response, the sullen “Jeez, did they open an IHOP right next to your house or something?” the first words he’s heard her speak beyond the mumbled day-one introduction, and it is a testament to Dean’s good mood that he just chuckles and tells her to tune back in for the lesson.

Some other kids ask Dean (more politely) if something good happened, and on Friday, a particularly cheeky young man tries to convince him that since _Dean_ is clearly looking forward to the weekend, he should withdraw homework assignments so the kids can, too.

Dean doesn’t share personal things with students (and wouldn’t _this_ be a doozy to try and explain), nor does he usually structure the homework schedule around his own whims; but it was cute that the kid tried.

Of course, it’s not officially a date, but — all roads lead to Rome, right?

Anyway, the important thing is, Cas agreed to go out with him — _with additional outings implied_ . And no, that doesn’t mean a whole lot more than that they’ll be spending a little time together, but time is what Dean wanted. It’s what he _needs,_ if he’s going to get more.

And the only way that will happen is if he makes the most of the time he gets.

Thus, come Saturday afternoon, Dean finds himself shimmying into his snug, dark-wash First Date Jeans and a thin black V-neck tee that makes him look like a giant douche. He’s considered throwing it out more times than he can count, but it accentuates his ‘shoulders and waist and all the good bits in between,’ as Pamela has said, not to mention it boasts a suspiciously high success rate for pickups, and so — it stays.

Anyways, it’s much less conspicuous once he has the dark grey button-down over it, and Cas seems like the type of guy who might dig a V-neck. He’d appreciate the small bit of daring, and probably the view, too; Cas was never shy about things like that, and he liked people who weren’t shy either.

Well, unless they were people he didn’t actually _like_. Then, no, daring and forwardness were bad.

Dean tries not to frown.

Today, he’s taking Cas to a hip cafe on Main, which is way busier than it was when they were in school — though to be fair, everything in Lawrence is busier than it was. It’s not like it ever had that claustrophobic small-town vibe, thanks to the Crowleys and Talbots and their Midwest regional offices, with enough of a population that no, everybody did _not_ know everybody else, thank you very much (even if you had decent odds of running into people you _did_ know), but in the last ten years, things have grown enough that places like Pam’s club and quirky little shops and restaurants do just fine.

If Dean were still a nerdy fifteen-year-old, he’d probably bring Cas to The Rookery, but Eileen’s comic-shop/cafe/lounge (technically half-owned by Charlie) would probably be at best _indulged_ by high-school Cas, and no doubt holds zero appeal for the adult version. Certainly, it’s not the ideal setting for seduction, acting more like an incredibly cozy home-away-from-home if you felt like you should probably get out, but deep-down really wanted to stay in and vegetate.

When Dean does get to the staying-in phase of (fake?) dating Cas, they sure as hell won’t be doing it to _vegetate._

Rather than dwell on that thought (or the fact that it comes with a familiar, uncomfortable sort of hot feeling), Dean tidies up his bedroom in an effort to kill the clock. By the time he’s done everything short of vacuum, it’s late enough to leave, and he relishes in the surge of anticipation as he gets behind Baby’s wheel and puts the car in drive.

Not-Date Number Two, here he comes.

Cas is waiting outside by the time he gets there, eyeing the doors with a barely perceptible frown, and Dean’s surprisingly pleased that Cas beat him here; worrying he was being stood up was unexpectedly stressful, and Cas _has_ had a week to potentially reconsider this entire thing.

Dean sure as hell doesn’t want a repeat of last time, is all.

He comes to a stop right next to Cas, careful to let their shoulders brush, and Cas steps away with the beginnings of an apology before he recognizes Dean.

“Oh — Dean — hello.”

Which, Dean refuses to like how his name sounds coming out of Cas’s mouth, and even if he did, that’s hardly new. Dude’s always had a good voice, and Dean’s only human; it wouldn’t mean anything.

He grins.

“Hey, there, Cas. Whatcha doin’?”

“Waiting for you,” Cas answers promptly, then winces. “I mean — I — I wasn’t sure if I should wait inside or not.” He clears his throat. “It looks . . . busy.”

It’s one o’ clock on a Saturday, so that doesn’t surprise Dean. He debated the merits of quiet and cozy, all the better to whisper softly, my dear, but decided that would be getting ahead of himself. Dean means to work up to the whole seduction part of his plan, lest Cas freak and make a break for it, and in the meantime, he needs to convince Cas he really does just want to be his friend.

He steps aside for a conveniently arrived guest, bringing his shoulder back into contact with Cas’s.

“What, don’t like crowds?” he jokes, because this is _Cas,_ former wild-child, but Cas just nods seriously.

“Not particularly.” He sighs. “But it is a Saturday. Anywhere nice will be like this.”

Dean blinks, processing that.

Alright. Maybe drunken teenage parties were different. Sure, Dean had heard through the grapevine that Cas partied _hard_ once he’d made it to college, but packed rooms full of dancing bodies was pretty different than a busy cafe.

If by ‘pretty different,’ you mean ‘nowhere fucking near as bad.’ But sure, Cas is allowed to not like crowds. It’s not like Dean actually ever went anywhere with him; nah, they just sat at home and watched movies with Dean’s little brother all the time (which in hindsight, should have been Dean’s first goddamn clue). For all he knows, Cas only hooked up with so many people in high school to get away from the crowds outside the bedroom.

He tries to offer Cas a neutral smile, but his whole face feels brittle.

“Yeah, sorry about that. But their pastry selection is amazing, if that helps.”

Cas’s lips quirk.

“I see. You invited me for coffee, but what you really meant was ‘pie.’”

Oh, _hell_ no. Cas might be allowed to not like crowds, but he sure as hell isn’t allowed to remember shit about Dean, a bout what Dean _likes._

As if he ever fucking _cared_.

It’s amazing how Cas can be nothing but the occasional (fine, more than occasional) _mildly_ intrusive thought for years, but the moment he shows up again, it’s like the big reveal at Missouri’s happened last week for Dean.

Dean takes a grounding breath, flashing a sharp smile.

“I can neither confirm nor deny, Cas.” He pulls open the door, gesturing Cas through, and Cas pauses for a moment, blinking.

“Thank you.” He fixes Dean with a sidelong look as he passes, but moves through without further comment.

There’s a few people ahead of them in the line, but that’s fine, since it gives Cas a chance to study the menu, and gives _Dean_ a chance to study Cas.

Cas looks a little less tired today, although the slight bags beneath his eyes have been there since Dean first laid on eyes on the guy, back when Cas was no more than sixteen, so he suspects that’s partly a facial feature. His hair is as much of a wreck as ever — Dean wonders if there’s just something in Cas’s genetics that naturally makes him look like he’s just tumbled out of a major storm — and curiously, he’s wearing that baggy trench coat again, just like the last two times Dean saw him. Dean always pictured him growing up as a drifting bad boy, leather jacket permanently affixed to his back, or during times of bitterness, living in jeans and hoodies and stuck in a pathetic state of man-childness as all his looks faded and his life went nowhere.

He certainly never figured him for the ill-fitting-suit-and-trench-coat type. It’s not a bad look for him — Dean doesn’t even want to know how he would have reacted if Cas had worn ties the last time he saw him (certainly, Cas would have had to fight him off a lot harder) — and in some ways, it complements that appalling tangle of hair — but for all its dishevelment, it is nonetheless . . . sedate.

“Cool coat,” he blurts out, weirdly fixated on it.

“Actually, it’s quite warm,” Cas deadpans, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“You’re not cute or funny,” he retorts, earning a shrug.

“And you don’t think my coat is cool. How is their lemon cake?”

Dean makes a face.

“It’s cake, you dick, don’t ask me. And for the record, I happen to like your coat.”

Cas glances over at him, tilting his head.

“I believe that.” A pause. “But you don’t think it’s _cool._ ”

Dean’s so taken aback, he laughs.

“Fine,” he says through a chuckle. “It’s not cool at all. But it looks good on you.”

Cas starts, gaze quickly sliding back to the menu.

“Oh. Well, that’s very nice of you. Thank you.”

“Sure. But Cas?”

“Mm?”

“Don’t get the lemon cake.”

“Why not?”

“Because!”

“Because?” Cas prompts, though Dean’s pretty sure he’s scanning the left side of the glass display, where the warm, buttery pastries live.

“’Cause cake is for the weak-willed and indecisive. Man up — or lady up, whatever — and at least buy a danish or something.”

“The muffins look nice. Will that help forcefully affirm my grown-up, gender-iness?”

“A) Gender-iness isn’t a word, smartass, and B) muffins are worse than cake, so _don’t you dare._ ”

Cas snorts.

“ _How_ are muffins worse than cake?”

“Because people who order muffins are people who actually want cake but are lying to themselves about it, like if there’s no frosting that magically makes it not a fuckin’ piece of cake!”

“Some muffins are very healthy, Dean.”

Dean stabs a finger in the direction of the nutrition card next to the muffins, which Cas squints at for a few seconds before pursing his lips.

“Alright, not those.”

Triumphant, Dean nudges him forward as the line moves, earning another of those wary, sideways glances. He ignores it.

“So, since you’re not getting a cake or a muffin—"

“We’ve actually established no such thing—"

“—may I recommend to you the cherry galette?”

“What if I don’t want a pastry?” Cas counters, a little petulantly, in Dean’s opinion. He tries not to be affronted.

“Well — then — I guess you can get a cookie.”

“Oh, you _guess_ I _can_ get a cookie — thank you for your generosity, Dean, truly—"

“Oh, for God’s sake, Cas, just _pick something._ ”

“I’m _trying_!”

Dean crosses his arms with a huff — he was just being _nice,_ you know, and trying to make sure Cas didn’t waste the money or calories on some shitty cake — and belatedly notices that everyone else in line is staring at them.

Cas opens his mouth to retort, before apparently realizing the same thing; he snaps it shut, and stares awkwardly at his shoes instead.

They stand there, silent, while the next person in line orders.

Eventually, Dean coughs.

“Uh. So — I maybe have some . . . weirdly strong feelings about dessert.”

“Maybe just a little,” Cas returns dryly, though he looks about as sheepish as Dean feels.

“Shut up, like you weren’t right there with me.”

“Yes, well, perhaps I have some ‘weirdly strong feelings’ about being told what to do.”

“What, you don’t like me bossin’ you around?” Dean jokes, knocking a friendly elbow against his side, and Cas’s face does a weird thing.

“For the love of God,” somebody behind them mutters, but Dean decides they’re probably talking about something else.

“ _Anyways,_ ” Cas says. “Was your recommendation sincere?”

“Hm?”

“The cherry galette. Is it really good?”

“Hell yes. I’ll eat it if you don’t.”

“That actually doesn’t help me.”

“Whatever, man; I’m sure you’ll like it. Your favorite kinda pie was cherry, wasn’t it?” Dean asks without meaning to, and Cas looks surprised, which — God damn it. Now Cas probably thinks Dean has hoarded every tiny memory of him like some kind of pining creep, which he _hasn’t,_ okay, he just has a good memory.

Thankfully, Cas doesn’t call him on it.

“Yes,” he says slowly. “It was. It still is.”

“Well, okay, then. A galette’s a lot like a topless pie with a softer crust.”

“Alright. It sounds very nice. Thank you, Dean.”

Strangely, Cas seems sincere, looking Dean in the eye as he says it, and his agreement sends a little burst of pleasure through Dean.

At which point it occurs to him that in the first ten minutes of their outing, he told Cas he wasn’t cute or funny, called him a dick, and then started a fight about dessert. A fight in which Cas was an active participant, but still — it’s a good thing this isn’t a date, or else it would be a pretty shitty date so far.

Not that Dean isn’t having fun, he’s surprised to realize, but then he remembers he’s pissed at Cas, has been for over a decade, so of course he’s enjoying antagonizing him.

Finally, it’s their turn, and the cashier gives them a bland smile.

“Do you guys know what you want?” she asks, perfectly pleasant, but Dean nonetheless has the strange impression that she’s making fun of them.

“I’ll have a medium salted caramel latte and a slice of dutch apple. Cas?” he prompts, glancing back. Cas is staring at him. “What?”

“Nothing. Um, I’d like the small white chocolate mocha and the cherry galette.”

She punches in the order and smiles, a little more sincere.

“That’ll be seventeen-forty-four.” Dean hands her his card, ignoring Cas’s protest.

“Dude, I made you order the galette. This is fair.”

“I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t wanted to,” Cas objects stubbornly, and Dean rolls his eyes. The cashier just stares intently at her machine while she slides the card.

“Yeah, whatever. Suck it up, man.”

“I insist on paying you back.”

“Think I’m the one who should be paying _you_ back,” Dean snarks, unable to stop himself, and there’s a sharp intake of breath from Cas.

God _damn_ it _._ He’s gotta stop _doing_ that.

When he looks, Cas is staring at him like he just saw his puppy get iced by Dean’s front tire.

“I’m teasing, Cas. But seriously — let me do this.”

Cas drops his gaze, fingers curling at his sides.

“Okay.”

When Dean looks away, the cashier is holding out his card, eyebrows halfway up her forehead.

“That’ll be ready in a few,” she says slowly. “If you guys wanna wait down there.”

He takes it, refusing to blush, and nods at her.

“Thanks.” He steps to the side, Cas shuffling after him, and extracts a few ones from his wallet to stuff into the tip jar.

They move to the end of the counter, the air between them stifling despite the general noise of the crowded cafe around them, and Cas looks so troubled Dean feels like a complete shitheel for bringing it up.

“Look, Cas,” he starts, and Cas’s shoulders tense a little.

“Sorry. I know that—"

“Hey, shut up. Let me finish.”

Cas’s lips press together in a thin line, but he nods.

“That, uh. That wasn’t cool. But — that’s why I wanted to come out with you. Why I wanna keep spending time with you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I just — I figure if we keep hanging out, shit like that just — I won’t even think about it anymore. ‘Cause believe me, I’d really like to not think about it anymore. I’d rather think about how your favorite kind of pie is cherry, and how I reluctantly like your totally lame coat.”

Cas narrows his eyes, and Dean lifts his brows innocently, earning a huff of laughter as Cas shakes his head. When he glances back at Dean, though, his eyes are serious.

He looks at him for a long moment.

“Do you think you can?” he asks, quiet. Dean blinks.

“What?”

“Do you think you can really forget that?”

It takes Dean a moment to find his words, a moment during which he also forgets that the actual answer is _no, of course not._

“Yeah. If you give me some time. Can you put up with me until then?”

Cas hesitates.

“If you want me to.”

Like it’s all up to Dean. Like if Dean asks, he’ll do it, because — because — shit, Dean doesn’t even know. Cas was always a fucking headtrip, and that apparently hasn’t changed. There’s no point trying to work through his motivations now, though, because that would mean caring way more then Dean plans to; as long as Cas is in this with him, is responding to whatever Dean’s putting out there, then that’s all Dean needs to know.

He swallows, trying to focus on what’s happening in the present, which is surprisingly difficult when Cas is looking at him like he is now.

“Yeah, I do. I really do.”

“Alright, then.” Cas nods, seemingly more to himself than to Dean, and they fall silent again, because Dean can’t stow his goddamn baggage for more than ten minutes at a time, it seems. Seducing Cas is going to take another decade, at this rate.

He has to pull it together.

“Salted Caramel and White Chocolate?” the barista calls, and Dean moves forward to accept his drink and the pie-laden plate next to it. Cas takes his as well, and they find a table just as another couple vacates it.

“Salted Caramel Latte,” Cas muses suddenly, and Dean quirks a brow. “That surprised me.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know. I assumed you would drink your coffee black.”

_That_ makes Dean laugh.

“Hell, no. I haven’t had it black since Dad passed,” he chuckles, and Cas’s eyes widen, because of _course_ they do, since that was actually pretty fucking dark for a get-to-know-you-again coffee date, _you dumbass._

“Oh.”

Dean clears his throat.

“Sorry. Just — I mean, I — yeah.”

Cas nods, like he understands.

“Of course,” he answers solemnly, and wow, with game like this, how has Dean ever gotten laid?

He just barely refrains from smashing his face into the table.

“You gonna try that galette or what?” he teases, offering Cas his most charming smile to make up for what just happened, and Cas drops his fork.

“Uh. Yes. Yes, I am going to do that.” He fumbles along the table for his fork for a moment before he finally looks away from Dean to pick it up, mumbling, “Here I go.”

He chews slowly, thoughtfully, and Dean watches his face the whole time, just to make sure whatever reaction is sincere.

He does look away when Cas’s throat bobs as he swallows, the movement weirdly fascinating for some reason, and Dean shakes himself, firmly directing his gaze back to Cas’s face.

Those pink, soft-looking lips turn up at the corners.

“It’s very good, as you said,” Cas acknowledges, glancing up at Dean again. There’s a window off to the side letting the light in, and _Jesus_ , Cas’s eyes are blue, bright and vivid against the sweep of dark lashes and—

“Told ya.” Dean stabs his fork into his own pie with determined force.

“How is yours?”

“Great,” he returns, mouth full, because he’s classy like that.

Cas looks amused.

“So it would seem.”

Dean doesn’t dignify that with a response, opting instead to wash down the pie with a swig of latte. He refuses to spend the next twenty minutes staring at Cas while Cas eats and stares back; he needs to remember what they’re here for.

“So, Cas,” he starts. “What brings you back to Lawrence, anyway?”

Cas stills.

“Oh, just . . . family.”

Dean waits for him to elaborate, until he realizes that the staring-at-Cas-while-he-eats thing is totally going to happen if he keeps waiting.

“Okay. Family. That . . . makes sense.”

“Yes.”

And really, Dean should probably drop it, because it’s nothing to him, either way, but—

“Like the hyper-religious, super-strict family that was shitty to you all growing up? That family?”

Cas frowns at him.

“They weren’t _shitty_ to me.”

“Sure seemed like it to me,” Dean says, even though he knows he’s kind of being an ass. But come _on,_ these are the same people that sent Cas to Dean’s house in _tears,_ and although for a while Dean had chalked that up to a particularly devious scheme on Cas’s part, he eventually grew up enough to realize that was probably just Cas being a genuinely unhappy kid because his family members were a bunch of dicks.

“I admit we had our difficulties, but every family does.”

It takes effort to stop himself from bringing up the crying incident, but he manages. That would be ten thousand kinds of awkward, assuming Cas didn’t immediately walk out.

“Yeah, okay. Fair enough.” Another thought occurs to him, one that makes him feel like even more of an ass. “Um, is — is everybody okay?”

“What?”

“Like . . . you didn’t have to move back to, uh, take care of anyone?”

For a second, Dean swears Cas’s face falls, but then he’s calmly cutting off a piece of galette.

“No, no one’s health is ailing.”

“Good. That — that’s good. Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . anyway.” Dean gulps at his latte. “How ‘bout work? How’s 451 treatin’ you?”

“Very well,” Castiel says. “I like it there.”

“You met Becky yet?” Dean can’t resist asking, and to his amusement, Cas’s mouth tightens.

“She occupies the office next to mine.”

“Real firecracker, huh?”

“You might use that word,” Cas agrees stiltedly, and Dean snickers.

“Has she shown you her fanfiction yet?”

“No. Wait — is that why the employee handbook has that rule?”

“What rule?”

Cas makes a face.

“Under Harassment in the Workplace, there’s a rule forbidding the unsolicited distribution of sexually explicit materials, including but not limited to pornographic movies, erotica, fanfiction, pornographic magazines, fanfiction, explicit graphic novels, and fanfiction.”

“Isn’t sexually explicit fanfiction erotica? And wait, is fanfiction _seriously_ on there three times?”

“Yes.”

Cas, to his credit, is very patient while Dean finishes laughing.

“Holy shit, man, only Charlie.” He chuckles a little more, when a thought occurs to him. “Hey, uh, you seen Charlie yet?”

“Only in passing.”

“Uh-huh.” He hesitates. “So has she seen you?”

Cas squints at him.

“I don’t think she’s noticed me, no.”

Dean’s not quite brave enough to ask Cas to lie about their going out, if he does see her, because that’s gotta be a huge red flag if ever there was one, but he does mentally cross his fingers that she continues to not notice him.

He feels bad, lying to his best friend like this, but he knows she’d have something to say about what he was doing here.

(Probably several somethings, actually.)

“Huh. Well—"

“You’re worried.”

It’s not a question.

Dean shrugs, hoping he comes off as nonchalant.

“Nah, not really. Bet she’ll be surprised though; you’ll have to let me know how she reacts.” He adds a small laugh for good measure, although he probably shouldn’t have bothered. Cas clearly isn’t buying it.

“Right,” he says.

“Other than Becky, though,” Dean continues, before he can argue. “How do you like the company?”

Cas chews on a piece of galette thoughtfully.

“It’s very different than what I’m used to. Very . . . relaxed. Which is nice. Although I’ve received an overwhelming number of social invitations.”

Dean freezes. He hadn’t thought of that.

“Social invitations?” he repeats, watching Cas closely in an effort to discern, without having to ask, what all those invitations entail.

“Yes.”

He waits. Cas takes another bite of galette.

Dean doesn’t let out a long-suffering sigh, but it’s a near thing.

“Like what? You’re too new to get invited to the company orgies,” he jokes, but Cas’s face takes on an alarmed expression.

“What? But — they don’t — but _the harassment policy,_ ” he finally states, emphatic, and Dean tries and fails not to laugh.

“Dude, your _face._ No, they do not have orgies. Come on, man, I was just teasing you.”

“Oh.” Cas looks sincerely relieved for a few seconds, before it tenses into a scowl. “That was unkind.”

“No, it was on obvious _joke_ , Captain Literal. Besides, I would’ve thought that would be right up your alley.”

“God, no. Not even in my first year of college.”

Dean lifts his brows. He shouldn’t ask, but—

“Your first year of college?”

Cas’s face undergoes a series of strange contortions, before he decides to hide half of it with his coffee.

“It was a strange year for me,” he mumbles into the lid.

“Sure, okay, but — what about the other ones?” Which leads Dean to a question that doesn’t burn quite like it used to, but nonetheless lingers in his mind. “You went to KU, right?”

Cas clutches his cup a little too tightly, in Dean’s opinion, and hesitates.

“Yes. Just the first two years, though.”

“Then what?” It’ll be nice to finally know why Dean got himself stupidly, embarrassingly worked up as freshman move-in day approached, only to discover that Cas was nowhere to be found on campus.

A fact that wasn’t nearly as much of a relief as it should have been.

“I transferred to SUNY, to be close to my sister.”

“Anna?” Dean asks, because he remembers a non-dick sister that was away at school back in the day.

“Yes.” Cas smiles. “She ended up back here, too, though.”

“Well, that’s good. You got at least one ally.”

He snorts.

“An _ally._ I told you, my family is fine.”

“Which is how I know they’re not. People who are cool with their families are happy to tell you they’re a bunch of assholes.”

“That’s counter-intuitive,” Cas objects, and Dean shrugs.

“Yeah, but it’s true. ‘Course, sometimes people who legit have dickbag families are also happy to tell you they’re a bunch of assholes, but people who weakly defend them? Dickbag family, every time.”

“So your family is great,” Cas says, challenging. Dean doesn’t take the bait.

“Nah, Sammy’s a little bitch,” he answers cheerfully, and Cas rolls his eyes, though there’s a small smile there.

“Of course.”

Dean’s about reached the end of his coffee, at this point, but half of the galette remains on Cas’s plate, so he figures he can eke out at least another ten minutes, assuming Cas doesn’t have anything else going on.

Which he shouldn’t, actually.

“So — you accept any of those social invitations?”

Cas blinks.

“Oh. No, not yet, although I understand the annual 451 Spoopy-time Kickoff Barbecue is mandatory?”

Dean snorts.

“Yeah. I’d say sorry, but it’s fuckin’ awesome, so I won’t.”

“Promising. Is there anything I should know?”

“Uh, eat before you drink, ‘cause somebody always ends up making an ass of themselves, don’t sleep with anybody you have to see everyday, and wear a costume, but not a great costume.”

Cas furrows his brow, hesitating like he can’t decide which thing to comment on.

“Alright. Why not a great costume?”

“Because at the Spoopy-time Hex-trava-bone-za — yeah, I know, it sounds dirty, but Charlie didn’t wanna change it — there’s a costume _contest,_ and first prize is an all-expenses weekend trip to a ski resort in Colorado.”

“I don’t have a great costume,” Cas tells him sadly, and then makes a face. “And you’re right, that does sound dirty.”

“Charlie,” Dean explains with a shrug, and Cas nods.

“Do you attend these things?”

“Yep, in the official capacity of handmaiden to the Queen,” Dean tells him, before he remembers that _maybe_ he doesn’t want to tell the hot guy he’s trying to get revenge on via seduction that he’s somebody’s fucking handmaiden.

To his surprise, Cas’s face splits into a grin.

And Dean — well, he didn’t _miss_ that. But it’s weird to see again. In a not altogether bad way.

“Still?”

“Shut up,” Dean grouses, and reaches for Cas’s galette in retaliation. Cas simply draws his elbows back to let him, and if that’s probably overly familiar for a first, uh, outing, then Dean sure isn’t gonna be the one to point it out.

“So what _do_ handmaiden duties include, nowadays?” he queries pleasantly, but the grin is sliding into a smirk, and it’s so weird to see that expression on adult Cas’s face that Dean stutters a little as he answers.

“I, uh — well, it’s — it’s, you know. Handmaiden stuff.”

Cas lifts his brows, and Dean sighs.

“I advise her on shit and I make sure weirdos stay away. Shut up, man, it’s basically a kickass wingman, okay?”

“Of course,” Cas says seriously, which Dean doesn’t buy for a second.

“Finish your damn drink,” he mumbles.

It’s not until Cas smiles back, all warm and twinkly, that Dean even realizes he’s smiling, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Problematic Thinking: Dean notes that at times, he imagined Cas as “living in jeans and hoodies and stuck in a pathetic state of man-childness as all his looks faded and his life went nowhere”; to be clear, jeans and hoodies are just things people wear, superficial markers of adulthood are bullshit, looks should not be important, whatever they are or however they change, and if you’re happy and not a dick, you’re winning. Ambition and/or success are not necessary for someone’s life to have meaning and value.


	12. Part II: i'm still a fool for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: brief reference to bowel problems/bladder control issues (details in the notes), implication about someone becoming a lesbian after dating someone (this is a joke, but obviously, sexuality is not a choice, and while someone might choose not to _date_ men or women after enough bad experiences with them, they can’t choose to change their sexuality), Claire jokes about judging Cas’s relationship history (she’s teasing him; she doesn’t actually judge him for it, nor should anyone else), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> note: Dean loans Claire a copy of _the princess saves herself in this one_ (Amanda Lovelace). If you have questions about whether that was appropriate for him to do, more on that in the end notes.
> 
> I hope you’re all doing okay out there ♡ As always, thank you so much for reading, and please enjoy.

> _Where did you come from?_
> 
> _Crash back into my world, it’s been so long_
> 
> _We’re here again in the moonlight_
> 
> _That night I’ll never forget_
> 
> _The way you moved, the way you left the room so sad_
> 
> _Like nothing ever turned out like you thought it would_
> 
> _Oh, we were young_
> 
> _And I’m still in love – I’m still a fool for you . . ._
> 
> _\- We Were Young, Fleurie_

They part ways outside the cafe, Dean standing a respectable two feet away and throwing Cas one of those devastating grins that fills his brain with pleasant white static.

It occurs to him, as he sits recovering in his car, that he might be in over his head.

Before his mind can fully clear, his phone chimes.

<< _so how was it?_

At first he thinks it’s from Valencia, but Hester wanted to take Alfie and Claire shopping for winter clothes, so he’d had no reason to tell anyone how he would be spending his afternoon.

No, the text is from _Dean._

He frowns.

>> _The galette_?

He’d already asked him that at the cafe, but-

_< < jeez, _ _cas_ _, I know the galette was awesome. I mean the whole thing. better than dinner?_

Cas is ashamed to find himself coloring. He hadn’t exactly hated dinner, even if it had reminded him of all the reasons he hated himself; even if he _should_ have hated it.

No, he didn’t hate it all; spending time with Dean, he’s found, gives him a feeling like, ‘finally.’ Like this is something he’s been waiting for, for a long, long time.

And today?

_> > Dinner wasn’t so bad. I’d do it again._

It’s a couple of minutes before Dean replies, and Cas realizes belatedly that that sounded like flirting. Which wasn’t his intention, of course, because even if Dean wants to be his friend, he doesn’t want to see him like _that,_ except actually, Dean doesn’t even want to be his friend, this is all just a part of his Machiavellian scheme to fucking _destroy_ Cas and-

_< < yeah? _ _and_ _today?_ _would_ _you do that again?_

Cas blinks at his phone, feeble efforts to calm his mounting heart rate failing rather spectacularly, because _how_ could he forget, even for a moment, what this was? The only reason he’s even seeing Dean at all is so he can confront this head on and finally move on with his life.

Of course . . . Dean’s not giving him a lot to work with, yet. And when he insists that he, too, just wants to move past that — when he acknowledges that it’s hard, but he wants to _try_ , and he wants Cas to try with him — it’s difficult not to believe him.

And Cas still _doesn’t_ believe him, even now, even after Dean looked at him with big green eyes and asked for _time,_ like he thought he could ever forgive Cas, like he wanted to. But Dean did do all that, and Cas was dismayed to find that in spite of his suspicions, he was willing to see it through — whatever _it_ turned out to be — if that’s what Dean wanted from him.

Which is a problem, and which is also probably why his next text is, if anything, an escalation.

_> > I don’t know, can I choose what to order next time?_

Dean’s reply is instantaneous.

_< < if you choose something decent, sure._

_ << wait next time?_

_ << so you’re not busy friday night? :)_

Cas glowers at that smiley, the kind of glower he has to purse his lips to keep from turning into a truly dumbass grin.

_> > I am busy Friday night, actually._

There’s another delay, and Cas hates to think he might actually be disappointed if Dean just lets it go. But after last time, he’s decided that Claire probably needs a normal night at home with him — or at the very least, with him and family — after a full week of school.

_< < oh okay. _ _hot_ _date?_

Like it’s any of Dean’s business. Like he even _cares._

Of course, if his plan is what Cas is starting to think it might be, he probably does.

_> > I’m free Saturday night, though._

Cas might be resigned to seeing this through, despite his brain screaming various criticisms of such complaisance at him, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to make it _easy_ for Dean.

_< < not anymore you’re not._

_ << let me meet you at seven?_

Seven sounds . . . late. And . . . date-ish. What will Cas do, if Dean means it to be a date? Does he feel so beholden to Dean he’ll play along that far? And if so, exactly how far is he willing to go from there?

_> > I _ _have an early bedtime. How late do you think we’ll be?_

That’s not completely a lie. Cas always goes to bed early, to give himself plenty of time to lie awake torturing himself before he finally manages sleep.

_< < the hell man? theres no such thing as bedtime on saturday_

>> _There is for me, Dean. How late?_

_ << jesus I can hear you in my head. ok fine cas. ten? though we'll miss the fireworks._

_ >> Fireworks? Since when do they let people set off fireworks after eleven in Lawrence?_

_ << since you left and we had to make up our cool factor._

_ << of course, we can probably come up with something just as exciting ;))_

Cas stares.

And stares.

And stares some more.

_< < uh that was a joke._

_ << sorry. I’m like that. reflex. I didn’t mean anything weird by it_

_ << anyways_

_ << so seven cool?_

He swallows hard.

_> > _ _Seven’s_ _fine._

_ << sweet can’t wait. I'll send you the info. see you then._

_ >> Okay._

Only now does he realize that this means neither one of them have started driving home.

And that he’s pretty sure he knows what the feeling filling his chest is, and if it’s right, it means he can’t wait, either.

Cas is definitely in over his head.

Dean’s eighth grade English class is busy analyzing _How Do I Love Thee_ while Dean, for his part, is hunched over his desk at the front, analyzing his own fucked up modern sonnets.

_Can’t wait,_ he’d said. _Can’t_ fucking _wait._

And yes, okay, fine, his ultimate plan is to charm Cas into throwing caution to the wind and throwing himself at Dean in the process, but that’s like, two stages away, and Dean can’t seem to stop flirting with him like they’re already there.

And even if it wasn’t too early to flirt like this, the whole point is that Dean’s supposed to know _exactly_ what he’s doing, yet his fireworks bullshit and inability to wait pretty much popped out of their own volition.

That’s not how he wanted to flirt with Cas; that shit might fly with the nice people he meets in town or at Charlie’s work events — or, hell, even the nice people he meets in bars — because those are people you want to make smile, who you don’t mind being sweet with, because they’re sweet right back and together, the two of you can pretend for a hot minute that the world isn’t a steaming, radioactive trash can.

But Cas is _not_ sweet. Cas is a seasoned lothario, and being sweet with him is a great way to relinquish the upper hand to his practiced wiles, o r at least to make him _think_ you’ve done that. At which point Dean will become just another insignificant conquest — _again._

Nope, Dean’s gotta keep him on his toes. He has to get him hot and make him wonder, and shit like ‘can’t wait’ is gonna do the opposite. ‘Can’t wait’ is practically the same thing as ‘here when you want me,’ and people like Cas never want what they can easily have.

If he weren’t sitting in front of a room full of thirteen-year-olds, he’d do the desk equivalent of face-palming.

“Mr. W, do you have to use the bathroom?”

Dean squints at the boy in the front row. Kevin Tran. He knows his name because his mother, Linda Tran, has e-mailed several times already to discuss the curriculum.

“’Scuse me?”

“You, um, you look uncomfortable.”

Dean blinks.

“No, Kevin,” he says slowly. “But thanks for asking.”

Kevin nods.

“Okay.”

Dean thinks that’s the end of it, that they’ll go back to their worksheets, but Kevin’s not done, apparently.

“Because my mom says it’s bad to hold it. Like, you might have problems later if you do. Like, um, bowel problems. And it messes with your focus, even if you think it doesn’t. But mostly bowel problems. Also, even if you just have to pee, if you hold your bladder too often now, then later in life, you might not be able to hold it at all.”

“Uh. Thank you, Kevin. I’ll keep that in mind,” he manages.

Kevin nods, and returns to his work with gusto.

Five students ask for the bathroom pass before class is over, and the whole thing gives Dean a phantom need to urinate.

It’s gonna be a long week.

Dean’s seriously considering making a break for the teacher’s lounge before his next class, but then he notices a student hovering a few feet away from his desk; it’s the blonde girl who sits by the window, and she stands there with classic teenage awkwardness, one hand fidgeting at the hem of her — admittedly very cool — leather jacket. It’s not quite September, and they’ve had more hellish hot days than not, but he doesn’t think he’s seen her without it.

“Hey,” he says, smiling, and big blue eyes flick to his before darting away again. “IHOP girl. What can I do for you?”

She looks affronted.

“What? My name’s Claire. Aren’t you supposed to know that?”

He shrugs.

“I’ve got five classes of twenty-five to thirty students, kid.”

“Claire,” she repeats stubbornly.

“You do the math.”

“Whatever.”

He grins.

“So? What’d you need?”

Her shoulders draw in a little, and she glances at the door like she’s about to change her mind. Dean’s not sure what to expect from her question, but he tries to look encouraging.

She shrugs.

“That was kind of a cool poem, that we did.”

“ _How Do I Love Thee_?” he asks, surprised. Sometimes there are a few kids here and there who eagerly take to all the love poems, but she doesn’t look like the type.

She rolls her eyes.

“Ew, no. I mean,” she amends, eyeing him warily. “I’m sure Browning knew her stuff, or whatever, but — but I meant the other one. That we did last week.”

Huh. Dean’s — less surprised, but not much.

“ _Hope_ _i_ _s the Thing With Feathers_?” he confirms, and she nods, shuffling a little.

“Yeah. Yeah, um, I was wondering if you knew of any others like it? Or just — good ones.” She chews at her lip, and then adds, “’Cause I just moved and it’s boring here, so anything is better than nothing.”

Dean suppresses a snort, because he was thirteen once, and sixteen, and hell, twenty-six, and he knows all about pretending not to care about shit.

“Yeah, that one’s pretty good, Claire,” he agrees, although he’d by lying if he said he wasn’t getting kind of tired of it. Certainly, if he had to pick a favorite Dickinson poem, that wouldn’t be it. “I’ve got an extra copy of Dickinson’s collected works, if you want to take a peek. I’ve also got a copy of _t_ _he_ _p_ _rincess_ _s_ _aves_ _h_ _erself_ _i_ _n_ _t_ _his_ _o_ _ne_ —" Dean pauses, trying to remember if that’s suitable for an eighth-grader, and decides it probably is- “If you want something a little more modern?”

She hesitates, blinking at him.

“Can I have both?” she asks, voice small and cheeks red as she studies him, and there’s something about the combination of shy and blunt that tugs at his heart, vaguely familiar in a way he can’t place.

He chuckles.

“Sure, kid,” he says deliberately.

“Claire,” he is predictably corrected, and he smiles, moving to his bookshelf to draw out the two volumes. She accepts them awkwardly, but Dean can tell she’s pleased.

“There you go. Try and be nice to them, okay?” he asks, although he has pretty low expectations. It’s worth it, though, if a student gets something out of them.

“I will. I know how to take care of things,” she adds, and then her face falls. A second later, though, she’s back to staring uncomfortably. “Um, so — is this like, the library? Is there a due date?”

“Nah. Whenever you’re done with them. Let me know if you wanna talk about them, too. Sometimes it’s nice to share.”

She considers that.

“Yeah, okay. Maybe.” Abruptly, she heads to the door, but pauses at the last second. “Thanks, Mr. W.”

“Any time,” he says easily, and shakes his head as she ducks into the hall without another word. Being a kid is rough, and it doesn’t take a genius to see that Claire’s not half as tough as she wants her too-big leather jacket to make you think. Even if it did, Dean knows that move pretty well, given that he used it himself.

Claire didn’t give her last name, but he remembers it from his class roster, now that he’s met her. Novak. He wondered about it, before, and dismissed the idea, because Novak is plenty common, and even if one of Cas’s several hundred siblings sent their offspring to his school, it made no difference to Dean.

_‘Cause I just moved and it’s boring here._

Still, the exchange keeps revisiting him as he teaches his next class, and though he can’t even begin to reach any meaningful conclusion, he starts to wonder.

_It’s the last time they kissed, and they’re in Dean’s room, making out. Dean’s on his lap, heavier than Cas remembers him being, and his mouth is working intently over Cas’s. Cas doesn’t question it,_ _though,_ _kisses back_ _the same as_ _he had_ _then —_ _except now he’s not worried, isn’t afraid of what he knows is coming next, and suddenly he’s being pushed back, staring up at Dean._ _G_ _reen eyes are determined,_ _Dean’s_ _lips swollen and_ _his_ _cheeks flushed, but he’s not like how Cas remembers; this Dean is the Dean of now, all strong jaw and cheekbones and nothing the least bit awkward about his loveliness, and for some reason, it makes Cas panic, just like he did_ _before._

_“Wait,” he tries to say, but Dean’s leaning down, finding his mouth again, and it feels so nice Cas almost forgets the feeling._

_But then Dean starts moving, and even though it feels even nicer, Cas turns away, pushing at him._

_“Wait,” he says again, and Dean sits back, staring down at him with so much_ _hate and_ _accusation it takes whatever breath Cas has left._

_“What?” Dean demands. “Don’t you want me?”_

_There’s no fight, this time, just Dean, tall and broad and beautiful_ _as he_ _’s become,_ _storming out, Cas_ _left_ _gasping for words in his wake._

_“I do,” he says, when Dean’s gone,_ _trying to get up and go after him, to explain the thing he can’t quite remember, but some invisible force traps him there on his back._

_“I do,”_ _he tells the empty room again, tears welling up. “_ _Dean, wait, I do._ _Dean—"_

Cas jolts awake, an uncomfortable pressure on one side of his face and a hand hovering in front of him.

“Wow,” Charlie Bradbury says, hair flaming in the mid-day sun where it shines through the cafeteria window. There’s a phantom tingle on his forehead, and he suspects she just poked it. “I didn’t know we had professional nappers on payroll.”

Cas remembers, suddenly, that this is his boss, the boss of the whole company, and he scrambles to sit up straight.

A quick check of the table says he landed just to the side of his sandwich, thankfully.

“Ms. Bradbury,” he chokes out, throat feeling raw. He clears it. “Hello. I’m sorry, I was taking lunch and I must have fallen asleep.”

All systems are slowly coming back online, and he feels a second spike of fear because in addition to being his boss, this is Dean’s best friend.

His best friend who was _there,_ when he’d done what he did.

Cas tries to keep his expression pleasant, even though his empty stomach is trying to jellyfish its way up his throat.

“Hm. I guess it’s your lunch break. Your PB&J bore you that much?”

Cas follows her gaze to his sandwich, one half of it smushed in by something in his bag.

“No, it’s my favorite, I just—"

Oh God, why is he talking to his boss about his sandwich?

“Trouble sleeping?” she supplies, deceptively sympathetic.

“Something like that.”

“No rest for the wicked,” she declares breezily, then chuckles when he blanches. “Oh, relax, I’m kidding. So, Castiel! How’s 451 treatin’ ya? Feel like home yet?”

It takes effort to find his voice.

“Everyone’s been very welcoming. It’s a unique company culture.”

She lifts her brows.

“You don’t like it here?”

“What? No, I do. Sorry. That was meant to be a good thing.”

Charlie nods approvingly, studying him with sharp green eyes.

“We try. We’re a family here.”

Cas hopes that’s it, that Charlie will get up and leave, now, that they won’t have to make awkward small-talk about the years since they last saw one another.

She doesn’t. Instead, she sticks out her hand with a warm smile.

“Welcome to the family, Cas,” she says, then cocks her head. “Can I still call you Cas?”

“Uh.” Cas takes the hand, offering an embarrassingly limp shake, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “Of course.”

“Ooh, that’s right. I’m the boss, now.” She beams. “Awesome. So, Cas, how’ve you been? It’s been, what? Ten years?”

“Eleven,” he answers slowly, alarmed.

“And?”

He blinks.

“Oh. I’ve been well,” he lies, because his personal tragedies have no place in water cooler talk, and he certainly doesn’t want them getting back to Dean. For all he knows, Dean put Charlie up to this.

Then again — Cas almost got the impression that Dean was nervous when he asked about Charlie; and then he seemed relieved when Cas said he hadn’t met her, yet.

“That’s good.”

“What about you? I mean, obviously, 451Games is a wonderful company, so you’ve done well, in that respect . . .”

“I like to think so,” she agrees. “It’s my baby. But life’s been pretty good to me, too.”

“I’m glad,” he tells her, sincere. They fall quiet, and he fidgets with the corner of plastic wrap. “Lawrence has changed a lot.”

“Lawrence isn’t the only thing,” she says casually, and he swallows.

“What do you mean?”

Charlie lifts her brows, and then grins.

“Oh, just — you know. Have you seen Dean around?”

Cas hesitates, remembering how Dean had been when asking about Charlie.

“I’ve seen him.”

Charlie leans in closer.

“And?”

“I didn’t recognize him, at first.”

Although, once Cas got over the initial shock of seeing him, he couldn’t help but think Dean hadn’t actually changed _that_ much.

“Right?” Charlie says, knuckling the table with a pleased smile. “Who knew?”

_I did,_ Cas wants to say. He didn’t know _what_ Dean would grow up to be, because he’s not psychic, but he knew it would be incredible.

“Indeed,” Cas mumbles, wondering if it would be rude to take a bite out of his sandwich. Sad, disfigured dreams of his youth have made him hungry.

Charlie’s smile loses none of its friendliness.

“Did you guys talk?”

And Cas realizes, suddenly, how odd her questions are; Dean confirmed that Charlie was still his best friend, and yet, here she is, asking like she doesn’t know.

Which would suggest Dean hasn’t _told_ her — which means, then, that Dean doesn’t want her to know.

Cas lets that sink in, unsure whether to feel bad about it or not.

“Not really,” he says, watching carefully for her reaction, and she relaxes back into her chair — like she’s pleased.

Again, Cas has no idea how to feel about it.

Tired, he decides. Extremely tired.

“You’re being much nicer than I expected,” he says abruptly, and she looks shocked.

“Oh — okay, we’re gonna — alright, cool. Um, what made you think I wouldn’t be?”

“You can’t possibly have forgotten what I did.”

Charlie winces.

“Nope. Pret-ty hard to forget, man,” she agrees, bobbing her head.

“At least some part of you must hate me for that.”

She rolls her lips inward, looking thoughtful, and finally just shrugs.

“Yeah, okay. I admit, I’m not a fan. But I felt sorry for you.”

Cas gives a huff of disbelief.

“I — did _that —_ and you felt _sorry_ for me?”

Wrinkling her nose, Charlie crosses her arms.

“Maybe not at first. Like, I _totally_ hated you at first, when I was younger and dumber, because you seriously did a number on my bestie, and it sucked. Heck, you did a number on _me._ I mean, I was rooting for you from the get-go, and then you turned around and Wormtailed us! Like, how could I have been so wrong about you? Made me doubt my own judgment.”

Cas says nothing, because weak apologies have no place in this matter, and fortunately, Charlie doesn’t seem to expect them.

“But then,” she continues, eyes narrowing. “I got _older_ and _wiser,_ and I realized my judgment was just fine. The _problem,_ was that _you_ were young and dumb, too. And that — that is why I pity you.”

Cas goes from feeling tired to feeling cold all over in about nothing flat. There is a fine frost coating the underside of his flesh, and it takes all his will to speak.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Charlie just gives him a look.

“Oh, no,” she says dryly. “Don’t tell me you’re still dumb.”

He gulps.

He’s not dumb — not that dumb, anyway — and he knows exactly what she’s talking about.

“Good talk,” she announces cheerfully, rising. “Although — I think you missed your chance with the sandwich.”

He stares down at it, expecting her to leave, now, but a few seconds later, he feels a firm hand on his shoulder.

“You know that, right?” she says, catching his eye. “That you missed your chance?”

Her smile is kind, but there’s a hardness to her gaze as it holds his.

He nods slowly.

“I know.”

Her eyes soften, and the hand on his shoulder moves to pat it gently.

“Good. See you around, Cas.”

He packs up his sandwich and returns it to his bag, because that, at least, he can still have later.

Claire opens her mouth three times during dinner, but nothing makes it out until the fourth try. Cas braces himself each time, never sure what to expect, and pathetically torn between relief when she does talk to him and pain because it’s rarely anything nice.

And to think, they were so close, once; Jimmy used to joke that if Claire had to choose between the two of them, she’d pick Cas.

He was wrong. Cas always knew he was wrong, but now he has proof.

Not that Jimmy will ever see it.

“You’re being weird,” is what comes out, but she doesn’t sound like she’s starting a fight, and Cas relaxes a fraction.

“Good weird or bad weird?”

“Weird weird,” she says, automatically going with it, and Cas thinks he must be acting very strange indeed, for her to pass up an opportunity to call him dumb.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Yeah, well, me either. Like, you’re always weird—" there it is “-but this is new for you.”

He raises a brow, and she huffs, twirling her spaghetti.

“Like — you seem—" she cuts off. “Not . . . um, you seem bummed out.”

The words are clumsy in their carefulness, and Cas knows she wanted to say ‘sad.’

But there’s a lot for the both of them to be sad about, and none of it’s anything they’re ready to talk about. Cas tried, at first, but Claire wouldn’t, and it’s not like he really wanted to, either, so here they are.

‘Bummed out’ is safe, though.

“Yes, well. I talked to my boss.”

Claire falters.

“Yeah? Is everything okay? With your job?”

He kicks himself. The last thing Claire needs to worry about is money, or Cas’s financial ability to take care of her. God, then he’d _really_ have nothing to offer her.

“Yes, of course. I just — I went to high school with her.”

She processes that, taking so long Cas assumes she lost interest.

“Is she like, your ex or something?”

“No.” And in case she doesn’t believe him- “She’s a lesbian.”

Claire blinks innocently.

“Since you guys dated?”

He laughs, because there’s never a point to withholding his laughter from Claire, even if she doesn’t feel the same.

“No, we never dated. She’s been openly gay as long as I’ve known her.”

She shrugs.

“Worth asking. Dad—" she pauses, so briefly he almost misses it, “-always said you dated everybody in high school.”

“Lawrence may not be a big city, but there were still too many people in my school for me to date _all_ of them.”

“Hm.” She smirks. “I heard you didn’t really _date_ them.”

“Claire,” he admonishes.

“What? I’m not judging you.” She lines a bite up on her fork, letting it hover next to her mouth. “Much.”

He sighs, although the rare banter is lifting his mood considerably.

“Yes, well, judge all you want. Charlie and I never dated.”

Claire nods slowly, humor dying.

“Wait, so why is seeing her again a bad thing?”

He probably should have expected that.

Cas hesitates a moment, searching for some kind of excuse that doesn’t obviously sound like one.

“It’s not, it’s just — it’s weird to see people after that long. It makes you feel old.”

Claire nods, studying him.

“Well, you kinda are.”

“Thank you, Claire,” he returns solemnly, and she hides a smile in another bite of food, a move he takes advantage of. “So how is school?”

“Ifsh schkul.”

“Are you making friends?”

Claire just gives him a look, swallowing.

“If you wanted me to have friends, we would have stayed in New York.”

One of the reasons they did not stay in New York was Claire’s persistent refusal to interact with _anyone,_ but Cas doesn’t point that out. Instead, he shrugs.

“There’s no reason you can’t make friends here.”

“Have _you_ made friends?” she shoots back.

Cas thinks of Dean, of course, and while he feels like a high-school-fake-boyfriend plotting elaborate revenge against him probably doesn’t count as a friend, he nods anyway.

“Yes.”

Claire’s expression shutters.

“Oh. Yeah, that’s right. Your mysterious date.” She purses her lips. “Anna said it was a cute boy.”

“Some people might think so,” Cas agrees calmly, even though literally everyone with working eyes would think so and ‘cute’ falls laughably short in description.

“I don’t think it counts as a _friend_ if it’s a cute boy.”

“You think?” He tilts his head. “But then cute boys wouldn’t have any friends, and that’s not fair.”

She scoffs.

“You know what I mean.”

“How do you like your classes?” Cas says instead, eager to get off the topic of Dean. “Are your teachers nice?”

“Ugh, no.”

“Really? You don’t like any of them?” That’s unfortunate; friends and teachers determined whether or not school was bearable, and it sounds like Claire’s batting zeroes in both departments.

Then she hesitates.

“Well. My English teacher is okay. His class could be worse.”

“High praise,” Cas comments dryly, and she throws him an annoyed look.

After another minute, she adds:

“He loaned me some books when I asked. That was cool.”

Cas perks up at that. Hobbies are good, too. It’s been a long time since Claire took a particular interest in anything, and Cas didn’t need to speak with a child psychiatrist to know that was a bad sign.

“Oh? Which ones?”

Claire thinks about it for a long moment, and Cas can see the moment she realizes what’s happening here — that Cas, in his clumsy way, is enacting the standard Parent-Child conversation her actual parents should be here to have with her.

She withdraws.

“Just books,” she mumbles, and hastily shovels the rest of her dinner in her mouth before jumping to her feet and heading for the stairs. “I’ve got homework. Later.”

He stares at her empty plate for a long time, trying to reassure himself that they’ve at least made progress.

It doesn’t really work.

Dean’s grading papers at The Rookery, a steaming bowl of cup ramen to his left despite the splatter risk, when Charlie corners him.

“Dean!” she greets him cheerfully, plunking into the seat across him, and he holds up a finger while he finishes the last answer on a quiz.

“Hey there, Charlie. What’s up?”

“Oh, not a whole lot. Just came here from work.”

The bright periwinkle blazer confirms her story, and Dean knows a moment’s unease.

“Yeah?” he asks, feigning disinterest as he prepares for the worst. “How was that?”

“Pretty good. Talked to the new guy in accounting.”

“Uh-huh,” he murmurs, shuffling through the papers as if looking for something. “What, did he have bad news or somethin’?”

“You might say that,” she mutters cryptically, and then straightens. “It’s Cas.”

Dean glances up to find her staring at him, eyes narrowed and searching.

“Cas? Like . . . Cas Novak?”

“Yes. Cas Novak, who you _apparently_ knew was back in town and didn’t tell me! Are we besties or not, dude?”

Aw, shit. Cas must have told her.

“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” Dean tries, although cavorting through town with your ex is definitely something you should be telling your best friend.

“Not a — _Dean._ Don’t play coy. A) I know you, and B) I was _there._ I can add two and two.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s supposed to mean you’ve got some stupid _plan —_ don’t deny it! — and I, as said bestie, am here to tell you to just _let it go_.”

“ _What_? You — I —" he sputters. “What’re you even talking about, Charlie?”

“ _D_ _ude._ ” She sighs, crossing her arms. “Look. You’ve already moved on from this, okay? And you should keep it that way. The town is way bigger than it once was. Hell, just because you ran into him once doesn’t mean it’ll happen again! And if it does, just — do that weird, nod-grunt thing boys do, and keep walking.”

Dean considers this, carefully, because it almost sounds like Cas _didn’t_ tell her.

Interesting.

He’s glad, because keeping Charlie out of his business when she’s determined to shut it down is both hellish and nigh impossible, but a part of him is also suspicious, because what motive could Cas possibly have for lying to Charlie when he didn’t know that Dean wanted him to?

Unless . . . unless Cas was worried Charlie would try and keep them apart.

Which would only be a problem for him if he _wanted_ to keep seeing Dean, enough to lie to his boss.

Dean tries not to grin.

“Yeah, okay, whatever, Chuckles. I’m not worried about it.”

She squints.

“Really.”

“Really, really,” he assures her, feeling bad for the lie, but not enough to tell the truth. He reaches for his ramen cup. “You want me to wait while you get one, too?”

She frowns.

“Yes. But — that’s it?”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know? I mean, Cas is . . . _the guy._ And he’s back. So — so I guess — I thought . . .”

“That I was still sixteen?”

She rolls her eyes, but has the good grace to blush.

“Oh, whatever. I’m getting some food,” she grumbles, and marches off.

“Don’t take too long!” he calls after her, and allows himself a moment to be relieved.

He knows this isn’t the end of it — he plans to be seeing a lot more of Cas, after all, and there’s a decent chance somebody will out them to her if they keep going out like they have. If Dean thought he could get away with it, he’d just invite Cas over for cuddling and movies like he did when he was sixteen, but seducing grown-up Cas is, sadly, going to be a lot harder than it was for Cas to seduce teenage Dean.

Fortunately, though, Dean’s willing to make the effort.

On Saturday evening, Claire comes down the stairs with a duffle bag.

Her message is not lost on Cas.

“I was back early last time,” he protests, and she scowls.

“So?”

“If I say I’ll be back by a certain time, I’ll make sure I am.”

“Yeah, but who knows when someone will wanna date you again. I’d hate to get in the _way,_ ” she huffs, brushing past him and ducking out the door before he can even begin to find the right words.

He inhales deeply, and follows her out.

“Claire,” he begins, once they’re on their way, because as tired as he is — as inept as he is — this is something he needs to address, for her sake, even if this won’t be the last time the issue comes up.

“Oh, my god,” she mutters.

“You know you aren’t — in the way, right?” he says, aware of how lame it sounds but unable to muster anything better.

“So you say.”

“I mean it. There—" He hesitates. “There’s nothing more important to me than you. If anything interferes with me being there for you, then _it’s_ in the way, and I don’t need it.”

“Oh, awesome. So self-sacrificing,” she retorts, tone impressive in its sarcasm.

“It’s not—"

“It’s not a big deal,” she finishes for him, propping her foot on the dash. “I’m just trying to do you a favor, you don’t have to be a girl about it.”

Cas frowns.

“There’s nothing wrong—"

“I _know,_ okay? It’s just a saying.” She reaches for the radio, signaling the conversation is done.

He’s tempted to keep trying, but there’s not much point when she’s in a combative mood — which usually happens when she’s feeling insecure.

Perhaps she’ll at least think about what he said; if not, he’ll find a better time and try again.

Claire just grunts at him when they reach Anna’s house, throwing the door open just as they come to a stop. She’s out and marching up the path before he can even put it into park.

“I’ll see you later tonight, okay?” he calls after her, but she just holds up a hand without turning. Ahead of her, Anna waves from the porch.

He lifts his hand in return, watching them disappear inside and shut the door.

It takes him a few minutes, staring tiredly at the house, before he remembers he has somewhere to be, and a little bit of life returns to his body, however unwelcome the nerves might be.

Perhaps tonight, he’ll finally figure out what Dean is after.

Truth be told, Dean’s a little nervous.

That’s reasonable, though, when you’re dealing with an opponent you’ve only ever lost against, right?

Especially when it’s been more than ten years and as much as you’ve lain awake, obsessively analyzing said defeat and how exactly it came about, you still have no way of one-hundred-percent knowing your opponent of _now._

After all, it’s not like Dean’s great at planning to begin with. Which isn’t to say that he’s _irresponsible,_ or anything, but he’s always acknowledged and respected the general unpredictability of life and thus preferred to come up with a loose strategy and, well, wing it.

And it works for him, mostly; he’s got pretty good instincts, and trying to second-guess them doesn’t usually turn out so well. He’s certainly learned _that_ , by now.

Yet somehow, the fact that he’s got his hands in his pockets, reassuring himself that the slight shake to them is from the evening chill and not his fears about how tonight is going to play out, has him wondering if maybe the real lesson he should’ve learned is that his instincts are _shit_ where Cas is concerned.

The original plan, methodically constructed even as he braced himself for their chance reunion, called for a very different date number three. There’s a place in the city he’d been to once before with Charlie and some visiting fandom friends, a sort of warehouse club with blacklights and pulsing bass and neon body-paint (not to mention a wide and readily-available selection of illicit substances) that Dean thinks Cas would have killed to get into back in the day; and two blocks away from it, there’s a 24-hour wafflehouse that gets nearly five stars on Yelp.

Needless to say, it was the obvious choice for one of their dates.

And yet. And _yet —_ as Dean texted back and forth with Cas in the car, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about how Cas had hovered outside the cafe, reluctant to go in because supposedly, he didn’t like crowds, and then he was thinking about this other thing he’d wanted to go to that night, and suddenly, he was making an ass of himself with the fireworks comment.

Dean didn’t believe Cas, when he’d said that. Honestly, he’s still struggling to totally reconcile the guy he’s about to go on a third date with with the hedonistic punk he knew in school. Of course, if he focuses on the bickering over coffee and what was _clearly_ Cas playing hard-to-get over text afterward, he can kind of see it.

That being said, none of it seems like a good enough reason for the fact that they will not be drunkenly consuming waffles at two AM and instead, Dean is now waiting for Cas to arrive so they can go to an outdoor concert at the Lawrence Public Gardens.

Tonight’s theme is Classic rock, to be fair; it’s not like they’re gonna snuggle under a picnic blanket to the sound of romantic violins and stirring crescendos. There might be a couple here and there, way in the back, canoodling on the grass, but Dean has tickets for two chairs in the first row, a vantage that should hopefully play nice with Cas’s most-likely-imaginary aversion to crowds. There are a variety of food vendors set up, if they want to refuel during intermission, and Dean would be lying if he said he weren’t really looking forward to it for its own sake. He _is_ sad that they’ll miss the fireworks, though, but he can always try and talk Cas into it.

(In fact, he’s pretty sure he’d succeed.)

Still — what if Cas thinks it’s lame? Genre aside, it’s a concert in the gardens and greasy finger food. And if he _doesn’t_ stay for the fireworks, then it’s actually not that exciting at all, if you think about it. It’s the kind of thing you do when you’re completely stuck in a town and you don’t want to spend another night at home contemplating the crushing monotony of your own existence.

And since Cas probably doesn’t ever _have_ that problem-

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean scrambles to attention, clenching his fists in his pockets as he turns to fully face his foe.

“H-hey, Cas.”

_Damn._

Cas tilts his head, searching Dean’s face.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, just — you, uh, surprised me, there.”

“Oh. Were you waiting for someone else?”

“What? No, I—"

Dean’s not sure what gives Cas away, if it’s something about the mouth or those goddamn eyes, but suddenly, he gets the joke.

He rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, buddy, you’re hilarious. C’mon, let’s sit down before the masses start throngin.’”

“That sounds unpleasant.”

“You bet it is,” Dean agrees with a wink. Cas looks back steadily, unimpressed, and maybe this is just how they flirt now.

(Was it always? Dean mostly just remembers Cas’s smoldering gaze, his tragically magnificent kissing talents, and all the sweet nothings about Dean’s value as a person and other, similar bullshit he spewed — but now that he thinks about it, Dean thinks maybe there was just a little bit of this, too.)

It could have been two seconds or twenty, for all Dean knows, but he abruptly realizes they haven’t moved, are still just standing there, for some reason, staring at each other.

His first impulse is to simply turn around and pretend it isn’t happening as he walks briskly toward their seats, but instead, he freezes. Cas is watching him, and his hair looks like he just went three rounds of ambiguous type with something either very angry or very enthusiastic, and his eyes are outrageously blue, even in the scant lighting, and he’s wearing the _trenchcoat,_ again, and Dean just–

He feels like he should do something. Something that’s not walking away and waiting for Cas to follow. And Cas is looking at him like he thinks _Dean_ might do something, too, even though Dean’s not even sure what the something is yet.

They stare at each other for another beat, and Dean’s hesitantly deciding that, if he ever wants this to go anywhere, he should probably reach out — casual-like — and . . . take Cas’s arm, or — or put his own arm around him, or hold his — shit, no, that’s so lame — but _maybe —_ when a large group of college-age kids stagger by and jostle Cas forward.

Which puts him about five inches from Dean.

Dean can fucking _hear_ him inhale, and he just stands there like a dumbass until he realizes Cas still hasn’t _exhaled_ , is just standing there like a dumbass’s dumbass date, waiting on Dean to do whatever it is he’s gonna do.

He panics, turning on his heel and making a beeline for the chairs.

“C’mon,” he calls over his shoulder, heart pounding like the show’s already started and he’s in a general admission moshpit while the music blasts. He can’t bring himself to look back and scope out Cas’s reaction, and for the life of him, he doesn’t know why.

Maybe this is gonna be harder than he thought.

Cas isn’t sure what it is about the moment, but they’re three bands in, Dean’s fingers curled in his jacket sleeve and grip warm as he shouts along with the crowd, clearly unaware that he’s just tugged Cas to his feet in his enthusiasm and has yet to let go, when it hits him.

This — it almost feels like a date.

Dean glances over as the final chords of the song fade, beaming and flushed and literally _breathtaking,_ and Cas realizes — to his horror — that he wishes it _was._

“How you feelin’, man? You good?” He scans Cas’s face. “Too many people?”

Cas shakes his head, though it takes him a minute to find his voice.

“I’m fine.” Dean’s face falls a little at the lack of enthusiasm, and Cas quickly adds, “This is great.”

Cas is not — has never been — a particularly enthusiastic person, but Dean’s hand is still wrapped around his bicep and the proximity is making him stupid.

There’s still the threat of a frown in Dean’s features, and the unwarranted spike of alarm that causes is what finally wakes Cas’s brain. He manages a small smile.

“I had no idea Lawrence did anything like this, but I’m glad I got to come,” he tells Dean, holding his gaze and desperately hoping the sentiment will revive his good cheer, however clumsily it might be expressed.

He must sound sincere enough (though really, he’d been lost in thought through most of the concert, partly due to Dean’s generally distracting nature, and partly due to that inscrutable moment from earlier), because Dean’s smile perks back up at that.

“Yeah? And the company’s not too bad either, right?” he jokes, and Cas considers that he must have eaten something strange at lunch, because there’s no other way to account for the flip his stomach performs at that.

He blinks back at Dean, struggling for an answer.

“I’ve hardly experienced the company.”

It is apparent to Cas, after he’s said it, that he _is_ the one who said it, yet he’s nonetheless startled to find he’s done so. After all, _why would he say that?_ And it’s not the first time he’s done it, either, if last week’s texts count for anything (which they must, given that there’s recorded evidence of them). What could he possibly hope to achieve with such suggestive comebacks to Dean’s . . . whatever it is he’s doing?

Dean’s expression goes dark just as the next song begins, and Cas assures himself he is both not blushing and very relieved, because that ought to be the end of it, and he can pretend he didn’t say anything.

But only for about three seconds, because suddenly, Dean’s grip tightens on his arm, jerking him so close he can almost feel Dean’s mouth against the shell of his ear.

“Then maybe you should stay for the fireworks,” he says, and _there_ — his lips are touching Cas’s ear as they move, and it’s all Cas can do not to shiver from the low vibrations.

Dean lingers a few beats longer — too long, much too long — then draws away abruptly, clapping in time with the crowd around them as though nothing is amiss.

Cas hadn’t even realized the audience had started doing that.

Even now, he tunes out the song, preoccupied with keeping his hand still, lest he bring it up to trace the line of his ear, left cold in the absence of Dean’s warm breath.

It’s a good thing, he thinks dumbly, that this is not a date.

“So, I never did hear back on those fireworks,” Dean remarks, giving Cas a cheeky, sidelong glance as their fellow concertgoers slowly amble away from the chairs and toward the field.

Cas pointedly avoids it, fixing his gaze forward under the guise of minding his steps.

“Actually, I believe we did discuss bedtime last week,” he reminds him, and Dean goes quiet.

When Cas finally risks a look, he’s raising his brow, and that odd feeling in his stomach flares once more at the suggestion to be found there.

“ _My_ bedtime,” he corrects hastily, and Dean’s beautiful mouth twists upward at one corner.

“Alright,” he says, and Cas hopes that’s the end of it. “But you’re an adult, Cas. Change your bedtime.”

Apparently not.

“I can’t.”

“Why not? I know 451 is closed on Sunday.”

He hesitates.

“I’m . . . backlogged, though.”

“Dude, you can’t be _that_ backlogged. I’m not askin’ you to stay out all night — just a little while longer. I’ve got a picnic blanket and a couple of pillows in the trunk.” His eyes twinkle. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Cas refuses to try and unpack the meaning of _that._

“Now that you mention it, it seems a little too cold out for this. I didn’t really dress warmly enough.”

“Which is why I brought an extra blanket,” Dean shoots back, undeterred.

Cas grimaces, trying not to think too much about cuddling under a blanket with Dean.

“That indicates you planned this. Even though I already told you I couldn’t stay.”

Dean studies him for a moment, then softens.

“And I’m happy to say good night now, if you really want. Well, maybe not _happy,_ ” he amends, smiling a little, and Cas desperately reminds himself this is _not_ a date, even if he’s unable to think of what else, exactly, it might be. “But it’s just one Saturday night, and if you wanna stay up late and watch fireworks, then I think you should let yourself.”

And Cas _does_ want to. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t even really care if there are fireworks. The prospect of pressing up against Dean as they lay back on the field, cozy under a blanket, hovers in his mind’s eye with disturbing invitation, and he’s unprepared for just how much he longs to accept.

But he also made a promise to Claire. And that — that is, and must be, vastly more important than engaging in this strange dance with Dean.

So he shakes his head, not quite able to meet Dean’s eye.

“I’m sorry. I really can’t. Thank you, though. I had a lot of fun.”

And he’s pretty sure he means that, even if ‘fun’ isn’t quite the right word, because some part of him craves Dean’s company and revels in it once had; nevertheless, Dean’s expression is tight when Cas finally forces his eyes up, and the smile he maintains is probably Cas’s least favorite one yet. He doesn’t really remember seeing it, when he knew Dean before, but he supposes he just saved all the disappointment for the very end.

“Yeah, okay. Me, too.”

Even if that was true five minutes ago, it’s clear it isn’t, anymore.

At least this wasn’t a date, Cas reassures himself yet again, or else this would count as a terrible end to it. Dean keeps his goodbye brief — says nothing about next time — and Cas isn’t foolish enough to expect another text waiting for him when he makes it to the car.

No, Dean simply gives him one last look, unreadable and dark in an entirely different way from earlier, and with that, they part ways.

And Cas, of course, still doesn’t know for sure what it is Dean wants — but he thinks, now, that he has a pretty good idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** SPOILERS **
> 
> Reference to bowel problems/bladder control issues: Kevin notices Dean at his desk, wearing an expression that prompts Kevin to ask if Dean needs to use the bathroom. Dean says no, and Kevin helpfully reminds him of the pitfalls of not defecating/urinating when your body is telling you to do so (i.e. bowel problems, later incontinence issues if you make a habit of holding your bladder). This scene is meant to be humorous, but to be clear, the joke is not bowel issues or incontinence; the joke is that Dean and his students are – wisely – alarmed by this prospect, and feel conscious enough about it that they feel compelled to use the bathroom, just to be safe (the power of suggestion). (Well, and the joke was also that Dean’s expression suggested he needed to poop.) Many of us will experience these issues at some point in our lifetime, and they can cause significant discomfort and inconvenience; there’s nothing funny about that.
> 
> Note about Dean’s loan of _the princess saves herself in this one_ : I did some looking around after I decided to post this story, and couldn’t get a clear consensus on the appropriate reading age for this one. While Lovelace handles some serious topics here, her approach seemed like an appropriate, accessible delivery for younger teens. Without getting into a broader debate about when to expose adolescents to certain topics in their media, especially since many of them are already dealing with those things by that age, I based my comfort with Dean providing this based on books in my school library which I read or had access to at Claire’s age, and also on things they made us read for eighth grade English.
> 
> That said, I had read it once, several months prior to including it in this story, and on a quick pass through now, it does seem a bit darker than I remembered. Unless Dean was confident it was stocked in his school’s library anyway, he probably should have erred on the side of caution and gotten permission from her parent/guardian. So if that gives you pause — there’s the reasoning, and this fic was not written with the intent of sharing, so I wasn’t too concerned with details like this at the time. My apologies.
> 
> (Also, I know sweet fuckall about poetry. I cannot overstate my lack of literary education or my inability to successfully analyze anything more complicated than Old MacDonald Had a Farm, so if you’re like ‘???’ about the poetry references in this fic, I’m very sorry.)


	13. Part II: listen now, just try and see me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: insecurity/self-worth issues (details in the notes), reference to _milk & honey_ (Rupi Kaur) (Dean’s stance on this one is that Claire does need parent/guardian permission, more explanation of that in the notes), role-based humor (a joke about someone being the wife, details in the notes), character wondering if they’re ‘too old’ to dress a certain way (society should not dictate what kind of clothing you get to choose from and be comfortable in, not based on your body or your gender or your age), references to reasoning for not having children (there are a lot of valid reasons for a lot of different choices, and this is not meant to be a broader commentary on any of them; it’s just this one character’s feelings and perception, much of which is influenced by their view of themselves), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> Hello, I hope you’re all doing well and staying safe. I have very much enjoyed reading your comments and speculation (it is so so hard not to spoil things in the replies!!), so thank you so much for that ❤ I hope you enjoy these two chapters, and thank you for reading!
> 
> **** Chapters 13 and 14 posted together. ****

> _As the days go by, I am asking ‘why did you leave?’_
> 
> _You left me alone and then you walked out on me_
> 
> _(I don’t care, I don’t care)_
> 
> _Thinking of days, thinking of ways_
> 
> _Thinking of things to you that I should say_
> 
> _I want to be with you, and that’s the only way . . ._
> 
> _\- Don’t Leave Me, The All-American Rejects_

It was a shit date, and Dean should have known it would be, but he forgot the problem with things like concerts and movies; you can’t _talk._ And as awesome as the concert was, it’s hard not to blame it for the fact that Cas left at ten o’ clock so he could go home and fucking _sleep._

Dean’s too worked up to attempt the same by the time he gets back to his place. He strips out of his clothes, jerks on a pair of sweats, and throws himself onto his bed like a child having a tantrum.

(Which is maybe not that inaccurate an analogy, but Dean’s feeling way too petty to care about that right now.)

And instead of sleeping, he’s stuck stewing in his own thoughts, replaying the night in his head and struggling to objectively assess the situation and figure out why the hell it’s not going anywhere close to according to plan.

Cas — when Cas first saw him again, at Pam’s club, _he was into it._ Dean’s had a decade of very thorough practice, and he _knows_ he didn’t misinterpret the look on Cas’s face when he laid eyes on Dean. Even after he found out just who it was he was looking at, it didn’t do a thing to dim the awe.

Cas _was_ attracted to him. Very much so, if Dean is any kind of judge (he is). And yet, despite the fact that Cas’s eyes still linger whenever they meet ( if Dean lets his own linger right back, that’s irrelevant), Dean's suddenly not sure; after tonight, he’s not sure if Cas _is_ still attracted to him, and if he is — well, maybe it’s not enough.

Which — Dean is really good-looking. It was a shock to everyone and it’s commented on often enough that he doesn’t bother trying to deny it, to them or himself. And going by Cas’s reaction in the club, he’s probably exactly Cas’s type.

 _Physically_ , that is.

Because Dean’s afraid he knows exactly what happened tonight, what’s probably _been_ happening the last few weeks while Dean was too giddy with anticipation to fucking notice he might end up with nothing to anticipate at all; it’s the same thing that happened eleven years ago, and then again in every serious relationship he’s attempted since.

Cas is deciding that no matter how pretty the packaging is, the actual contents really aren’t enough to hold his interest.

Dean throws a pillow across the room, and his _Natsume_ figurine gets swiped off the desk hutch along the way. It’s a testament to how angry he is that he just lets it lay there, potentially damaged, in favor of glowering at his bedroom wall, because somehow, despite preparing for this for _ten fucking years,_ it’s still not enough.

 _He’s_ not enough.

And he’s going to lose his chance with Cas — his chance to get _even_ with Cas — because of it.

Which is just fucking unfair, because _Jesus_ , it’s not like he’s really even had an opportunity to scare the guy off yet! They’re barely ‘getting to know each other’ again, and Dean’s usually capable of maintaining the whole irresistible-charm thing _well_ past this stage in the game. But _nope_ , Cas apparently, finds the charm entirely resistible, or maybe even non-existent. So — what the hell is Dean supposed to do about that? He’s not even sure what, specifically, killed his _real_ relationships, so how is he supposed to figure out what he’s doing wrong now, when he can’t even convince a guy who was literally rendered speechless by the sight of him to stay out past ten for _fireworks_?

Was it because of the way Dean had accidentally stared at him before they went to find their seats? Was there something really obvious and weird about the moment that put him off? Did Cas somehow read his mind, sense his uncertainty about what to do, and decide Dean was just the same lame dork he’d always been and there was no point going on the same ride twice? After his stupid texts and the tame coffee date, maybe this all seemed way too dull to hold Cas’s interest and he’s decided Dean is just a — a wishy-washy _loser_ . A guy like Cas was probably only showing up for the Dean that wears the leather jacket and drives the classic car and has perfected what he calls his ‘panty-dropping grin’ just so he can gross his little brother out, and now that he _knows_ —

Dean rolls over with a groan, burying his face in his pillow.

That was probably it. Most likely, Cas didn’t want to fucking cuddle on a blanket while watching Lawrence’s mediocre fireworks effort. He’s probably been waiting three weeks for an invitation back to Dean’s for some slightly kinky, extremely charged sex, after which they’d never have to speak to each other again, and tonight he probably decided Dean is just a doofus trying to play the hero in a goddamn Hallmark movie.

And it that’s the case — well, what the _fuck_ is Dean supposed to do now?

There’s a _Great British Bakeoff_ playing when Anna leads him to Valencia’s room; part of him wants to suggest they just swap the TV in here with the larger one from the living room, but he’s not sure suggestions of that nature are welcome coming from someone who is notorious among their circle for being “bad at life.”

Val seems startled to see him.

“I thought this was date three?”

Claire tears her attention away at that.

“Three? I thought this was only two.” She glances at Cas, mock-disapproving. “Cas. Have you been sneaking out?”

Cas hesitates.

“They aren’t dates. And last weekend, we had coffee. That’s all.”

“’S’all it’s _ever_ gonna be if you keep coming home before midnight,” Valencia mutters. Anna shoots her a warning look, but Claire is now staring at Cas, upset.

“Seriously? You didn’t tell me about that.”

“It was just coffee.”

“And you waited ‘til I was out of the house.”

“Claire—"

“If you’re gonna sneak around anyway, why bother with a curfew? I’m not a little kid, Cas. I know what’s going on here and I _told_ you, I’m fine with it. You don’t have to _lie,_ ” she spits — clearly the opposite of fine, in Cas’s opinion **—** and scoots off the bed.

“I didn’t _lie,_ I just — it didn’t seem worth mentioning. It wasn’t even lunch, it was a coffee with — with an old friend.”

Claire stops short, Anna and Valencia exchanging looks behind her. Anna’s face says she clearly wants to intercede, but Val stays her with a slight shake of her head.

“Oh, my _God,_ ” Claire snaps. “You’re doing it right now! You _hesitated_ ! Who is this guy? Why — why don’t you _talk_ about him?”

Cas bristles.

“I’m _sorry,_ Claire, I am, but this is my personal business and if I don’t want to share it? Then it doesn’t concern you.”

He’s probably being too harsh. In fact, he _knows_ he’s being too harsh, that he consistently fails to find the right words, to deliver them in the right way, but this is different. He’s never talked to _anyone_ about his history with Dean, and not only is Claire the last person he wants to know about what a fuckup he is, she’s also, through no fault of her own, the reason he’s not currently tucked up against Dean’s almost certainly lovely chest while the sky lights up above them; the reason Dean will probably not even be an issue going forward, because after tonight, he’s probably done with Cas.

At that thought, Cas deflates. He’s absolutely being too harsh, because clearly, he’s taking out his own regrets and disappointments out on her, and he shouldn’t. The whole point of leaving when he wanted to stay was that his so-called personal life is supposed to take a backseat to Claire’s needs; to get upset, and expose her to that upset, is not only wrong, but also counterproductive.

“Definitely not taking sides here,” Valencia begins, “But why _won’t_ you talk about this guy?”

“Yes,” Anna chimes in, clearly bursting with questions and having a lot of trouble suppressing them. “It’s kind of weird, Cas. How do I know nothing about something that’s obviously a big deal to you?”

Claire, for her part, appears stunned, probably because she assumed all the adults were in the know.

“It — it’s really not a big—"

“ _Dude,_ ” she sputters, though she seems considerably more relaxed now that she knows nobody else is privy to his secrets, either. “Don’t even.”

He sighs.

“Fine then. It’s a tale for another day.” _Or never_. “But — he had a . . . profound impact on me, in my youth.”

“I wish he’d have a profound impact on me,” Valencia quietly sighs, and Cas would be annoyed if not for the fact that Claire’s lips twitch.

“Yes, well, that’s all I feel is relevant for the time being. There are some things that are difficult to discuss, Claire. And because you are _not_ a ‘little kid,’ I ask you to respect that, and trust me.”

She looks like she wants to argue — hell, his sister looks like _she_ wants to argue — but then her jaw tightens and she shrugs.

“Whatever. I don’t care.”

Cas bites his tongue, because he, too, was like this as a teenager (as were most people), but knowing that doesn’t make him any less tired.

“Alright,” he agrees quietly. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah.” She reaches for her duffel.

“I’m surprised you didn’t unpack,” he comments, unable to resist. He knows it’s childish, but then, he supposes the part of him that figured Jimmy was enough of a grownup for the both of them still hasn’t caught up enough not to hassle his favorite niece, despite the tension between them.

She sneers.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know it was date three, either.”

Anna draws in a sharp breath, though Cas remains confused.

“What . . . does that have to do with it?”

Claire’s face practically lights up as she smiles, and Cas is pretty sure the malice therein is _not_ just his imagination.

“Well, your date let you go before ten, so I guess it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

It’s clearly meant to mock, and he narrows his eyes.

(Besides, Dean wanted him to stay. He — he tried very hard, to get him to stay.)

“ _Okay,_ I think that’s enough,” Anna interjects, looking vaguely ill, and Claire shrugs and sails out the door without another word.

“Huh. Thirteen-year-olds are more advanced than I remember,” Valencia remarks, and Cas doesn’t bother hiding his confusion.

“What am I missing about third dates?” he demands. It’s probably been seven or eight years since he last made it to a third date. Five since he was even on a formal date at all. Either way, he doesn’t recall anything significant occurring on them.

“You put out on the third date, Cas,” Val explains cheerfully, and Cas is still too baffled to really consider how this might have applied to tonight.

“But I generally ‘put out’ whenever it suits me,” he protests bluntly. It _does_ sound vaguely familiar, now that she’s explained, but it makes as little sense as the three-day rule for phone calls.

“Thank God Claire already went downstairs,” Anna mumbles. “If only I’d had the sense to join her.”

Valencia simply grins in response.

“Alright, then. Thank you for enlightening me, I suppose,” he starts, still disgruntled — and only then realizes the ramifications such an apparently well-known rule has for his evaluation of his evening with Dean.

 _Oh._ No wonder he had been so upset. Cas had ducked out before they could get to the main event, which apparently was _not_ the fireworks, as Cas had thought. If Cas had already been worried Dean had attributed his early departure to lack of interest, now he’s sure that’s what had happened.

But how was he supposed to know those had all been dates? They didn’t _feel_ like dates. (Mostly. Except maybe tonight, but that’s neither here nor there.) Dean certainly hadn’t told him, or alluded to his expectations for the evening. And how on earth is he supposed to fix it, now, to explain himself? It seems somehow tacky to send a text saying, “Hello, Dean, I had a very nice time tonight. Also, I’m sorry I didn’t know we were supposed to fuck.”

And — even if it isn’t tacky to send such a message, Cas doesn’t know if he would really mean it. That is, he _is_ very sorry to have disappointed Dean, or misled him, but knowing what he knows now, he’s not sure he wants to indicate a willingness or desire to remedy the situation next time. He’s certain, now, that Dean intends to do to Cas what was done to him last time they’d met, and — and no matter how guilty he feels (no matter how much he finds himself craving Dean’s company), is he really willing to put himself through all that?

Of course, if he doesn’t try to mollify Dean, he’s unlikely to hear from him again, and the point will be moot — assuming Dean will give up that easily, and why wouldn’t he? Surely his need for vengeance isn’t so great he would put himself out to that extent?

“Cas?”

He blinks.

“Sorry?”

“Do you want me to walk you guys out?” Anna is giving him a strange look, and he wonders how long he’s been standing there, silently cogitating.

“Oh, no, it’s fine. Sorry. Thank you for watching her.”

“Any time,” she assures him, though she still looks mildly concerned. He chooses to disregard it, nodding awkwardly, and hurries out of the room after Claire.

Even knowing what he knows now, about third dates and where this one was supposed to end once the fireworks were over, he still isn’t sure what he should do.

It’s just as well, though; he’s going to have plenty of time to think about it.

It takes Dean three days to figure out what to do.

Or rather, it takes him three days to find the balls to do it, because as much as he doesn’t _want_ to think about how humiliating it will be if this doesn’t work out, it’s pretty much _all_ he can think about.

Becky accosts him the moment he’s off the elevator, greeting him with a loud squeal.

“Oh, my God! _Dean!_ ” She squeezes his arm. “I didn’t expect to see you until kick-off! How’s Sam?”

Dean tries not to cringe.

“He’s doin’ pretty good. And I’m good, too, thanks,” he adds pointedly, but she just blinks back at him.

“Anyway, Charlie had a lunch meeting today, but if you want, I can—"

Dean definitely doesn’t want Becky doing any more than she has to for her job, and also, he was banking on the fact that Charlie wouldn’t be here, so he quickly cuts her off.

“Actually, I was hoping to see Cas?”

Becky stares like he’s just sprouted four extra heads, and half of them are the naughty kind.

“Cas?” she repeats, unnaturally high. “You mean — _Castiel_?”

Her gaze slides to the takeout bag in his hand, and somehow, her eyes get even wider.

“Oh,” she breathes, a weirdly husky cast to it. “Of _course._ Follow me.”

She practically breaks into a trot as she beckons him toward a hallway, then to a door at the end. It’s open, the room lit by windows, and Cas is sitting at the desk, squinting at a monitor. He looks tired and grumpy and that ever-present hint of disheveled, and Dean doesn’t have to fake the smile that comes to him as he brushes past Becky and lightly raps his knuckles against the door jamb.

Cas starts, eyes flying to meet his.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says.

_Here goes nothing._

Dean is in his office.

Cas blinks, but the image doesn’t go away. Light streams in from the windows behind the desk, illuminating Dean’s face, and between the stupidly bright green eyes, the splash of freckles, and the full mouth curved into a sweet, lopsided grin — Cas gets a weird sense of deja vu, one that leave a sharp pang in his chest.

He shoves it down.

“Dean.” What is he doing here? “What are you doing here?”

He almost winces, not missing the slight tightening of that beautiful jaw, but to Dean’s credit, the grin stays. He opens his mouth to speak, and—

“Dean brought you lunch!” Becky explains, delighted. “I didn’t even know you _knew_ each other, but of course I should I have thought of it—"

“Thanks, Becky, you can go,” Dean interjects.

“Yes, thank you, Becky,” he echoes, eyes not leaving Dean’s.

Until Becky sighs, loudly, at which he’s unable to suppress a frown.

“You . . . probably have work to get back to. I appreciate you taking the time to show Dean my office,” he adds slowly, and she looks like she might protest.

“Yeah, Becky, you better get going. I don’t wanna have to tell Charlie you’re slacking.”

“But I—" she bites her lip, glancing between them. “Okay. Well, holler if you need anything.”

She hovers another moment, eyes still darting back and forth, until Cas clears his throat.

“Becky?”

“Right, yes. Enjoy your lunch, Castiel!”

She seems to move very slowly as she walks away, but Cas ignores it. He has bigger fish to fry.

When he looks back to Dean, he finds him already looking back.

“That was rude to Becky,” Cas blurts out, and Dean rolls his eyes, strolling in without invitation and plopping the bag on the desk.

Cas discreetly tugs a stack of papers from beneath the corner, just in case.

“Listen, buddy, with Becky, you gotta cut her off early or you’ll never get rid of her. You’ll learn, trust me.”

Cas nods slowly, not really that concerned with Becky, because he’s actually already learning and knows Dean’s not wrong. Mostly, he did not at any point envision or prepare for this scenario, and he’s simply hoping to buy himself time to figure out how to handle it.

It would help if he understood why Dean was here. Surely, if he was interested in proceeding with his righteous vengeance, Cas would have had a text or phone call at some point during the last three days. After such a lengthy, pointed silence, he doesn’t know what Dean aims to achieve by surprising him with lunch.

“So, you got a few minutes to eat?” Dean prompts, eyeing him over the top of the bag, and Cas starts saving and closing his work before he’s even aware of what he’s doing.

Only when Dean shifts uncomfortably in his chair does Cas realize he hasn’t actually answered.

“Yes,” he manages, because Dean is already here, after all (wearing an actually-buttoned button-down, no less, and Cas hopes his students are too young to appreciate the privilege they receive, lest it produce some awkward situations) and he’s brought food, and what’s the harm, really, in just going with it? What could Cas possibly gain by sending him away?

Nothing, that’s what, so he might as well enjoy it.

“Cool.” Dean’s looking considerably more wary, now, and Cas kicks himself for his hand in that, longing for the bright, sunlit grin he showed up with.

Still, Cas isn’t even going to try and coax it back, having lost that ability on a chilly spring day back when he was eighteen.

“Becky says you brought lunch.”

“I did. I hope you didn’t already have something planned.”

“Peanut butter and jelly. But I can eat it tomorrow,” he quickly adds, lest Dean change his mind and leave. Which is ridiculous; Dean’s here for a reason, and it isn’t lunch.

Dean gives him a look like he’s not sure if he’s joking or not, then shakes his head and reaches for the bag.

“Alright, then I hope you like cheesesteaks.”

“Can you get a real cheesesteak in Kansas?”

Dean shrugs, tossing it across the desk. Cas catches it, and he smiles.

“Whatever it is, if you _don’t_ like it, there’s always your PB&J.”

“True,” Cas agrees, though short of being inedible, there’s no reason he wouldn’t eat something Dean had thought to bring him. He unwraps the sandwich, aware of Dean’s eyes on him.

“It’s very good. Thank you,” he tells him once he’s swallowed the first bite. The corner of Dean’s mouth tick up.

“Yeah? I’m glad. I realized I didn’t get to buy you dinner last time.”

There’s a twinge of guilt in his gut, and Cas lowers his gaze as Dean takes a large bite of his own sandwich.

“Well, I didn’t end up giving you a reason to,” he acknowledges quietly, and it makes Dean choke, for some reason, erupting into dry, crumb-laden coughs.

Belatedly, Cas realizes that that _probably_ isn’t one of the things you’re supposed to frankly discuss, which is stupid, in his opinion, because if Dean had just come right out and said it, they wouldn’t be in this situation now.

What situation they _would_ be in, Cas couldn’t say.

“I had a very nice time, anyway,” he hurries on, cheeks hot. Dean is still clearing his throat, but he nods uncomfortably as he gets the last of it.

“That, uh. That’s good. I wasn’t sure, honestly.” There’s an edge to the words, and Cas doesn’t know how to soften it, or even if he should try; perhaps he deserves to be cut.

Because _this,_ he has thought about. If Dean does invite him out again — what does he say? Not just about Saturday night, should it come up, but about every night? About his life?

Cas could explain. He could tell Dean he lost his brother and his sister-in-law, and now Claire has to suffer through his bumbling efforts at guardianship, and he can’t stay out late or go out too often or he’ll fuck things up for her even more than they already have been.

But — Cas has had a few to days to think about it, and even though he doesn’t know Dean anymore, not really, he did once. And he remembers that Dean had a kind heart, so kind that it probably hasn’t really changed, and Cas suspects that no matter how much he tries to downplay his story, Dean will pity him — at least enough to go easy on him.

However, Cas also remembers what he did to Dean, and he’s had a long time to understand exactly how terrible it was. In reality, he doesn’t _deserve_ to have Dean go easy on him. Whatever Dean feels he needs to do, Cas owes it to him to just bear with it.

And if a part of him is afraid that Dean’s kindness will make him rethink his plans and ignore Cas altogether — well, it’s a small enough part that Cas can ignore it.

“No, I did,” he answers him softly. “I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise. I just . . . it can be very difficult for me, if I mess with my sleep schedule. I have a lot of trouble, these days.”

That, at least, isn’t even a lie.

Dean searches his face for a long moment, sandwich forgotten; he must find whatever it was he sought, because he relaxes, smile forming once more.

“Okay. We can work with that. I didn’t know.”

Cas shrugs, relief easing his own tension, although Dean’s continued interest should do anything but.

“I didn’t tell you. It’s embarrassing, to be honest.”

“Dude, it shouldn’t be. Pretty much everyone has sleeping troubles at some point.” His eyes flick down. “Seriously, if you’re going to be embarrassed about anything, it should be your tie. It’s a good thing Charlie’s not big on dress code.”

Cas glances down at the offending article, which is — backwards, somehow. Again.

He swallows hard. When he used to live with Jimmy and Ames, his brother would frequently catch him before he made it out the door and just tie it for him. The last time it happened, he thinks, was the couple’s ten-year anniversary party, and Jimmy had stopped by his room to preempt him.

 _“_ _I’m not going to the office, Jimmy. It's_ _fine,” Cas had insisted, but Jimmy stood his ground._

_“Cute, Cas, but nope. Mom’ll panic and try and marry you off to the Allens’ daughter if you show up looking that sloppy.”_

_“She’s going to try that anyway.”_

_“She sure is, but this way, I don’t get nagged about it. Come on, champ, be a man about this,” Jimmy wheedled, beckoning him forward, and Cas went reluctantly._

_“Only because it’s your party.”_

_“Aw, thank you. That means a lot.” Beaming, his brother set to fixing the tie just as Amelia came to linger behind him, lovely in her mint cocktail dress._

_“My wife is just the best, right Cas?” she teased, tone fond, but Jimmy just shrugged, patting the neatly finished knot._

_“Ha, jokes on you, Ames!” he retorted happily, spinning to face her. “I don’t mind being the wife_ — _‘cause all my experience with wives tells me they’re_ awesome _.”_

_Amelia placed a hand over her heart._

_“Aww, Jimmy.”_

_Cas only tolerated them exchanging goofy smiles for a moment before fulfilling his brotherly duty._

_“Do you have a lot of experience with other wives, then?” he queried neutrally, then squeezed past them to leave the room, deeply gratified by the indignant squawk which followed._

“Yes, well,” he says now, blinking against a sudden sting. “I suppose I’ve just never gotten the hang of it.”

Dean must sense something amiss, humor fading to concern.

“Hey — is somethi—" he starts, but then Cas catches movement at the door.

“Becky!” he exclaims, not sure whether to be relieved or not.

She straightens, smoothing down her skirt.

“Yes! I just — I wanted to know if you wanted me to shut the door?”

“Sure—" Dean starts, but Cas cuts him off.

“No, that’s alright.” He frowns. “Can you hear us?”

Becky deflates.

“No,” she says, and sounds too genuinely disappointed to be lying. “But I thought maybe you’d want more _privacy._ ”

He doesn’t understand the meaning behind that careful emphasis, but Dean must, because he promptly puts a hand over his face.

Regardless, Cas knows that if Charlie ever hears he spent lunch with Dean behind a closed door, his ass will be out that door before he can say, “I can explain.”

“That isn’t necessary.”

“Yeah, Becky, go back to your desk.”

Cas gives him a look, but Dean just stares back, unimpressed.

“If you’re sure,” she agrees, reluctant, and then slowly retreats once more.

“You realize she thought we—" Dean begins, then abruptly stops, coloring beneath his freckles.

Well, then. If Dean’s _embarrassed,_ then—

“Never mind. So, uh, how’s the family?” he asks, and at that point, Cas is pretty sure he understands the reason for the change of subject, and he wholeheartedly supports it.

“They’re well.” He’d rather not go into detail, less he unwittingly reveal those things he’d prefer to keep secret. “And how’s Sam?”

“He’s doin’ good.” Dean nods, rubbing his neck. “Really good. Still can’t wait ‘til he’s done with school, though.”

“You must miss him a lot,” Cas supplies, and Dean smiles, a wistful thing.

“Yeah, well, he’s my brother.”

The words feel like some terrible, unexpected impact to his chest, but in the next moment, Dean continues.

“Oh, I forgot — you don’t really get along with yours, do you?” he jokes, and Cas doesn’t quite manage to smile.

He never told Dean about Jimmy, nothing more than that he was another brother among many. Even if they would never meet, Cas hadn’t wanted Dean to compare them, the way everyone else did. He’d just wanted to be Cas.

But now he really knows what it’s like to _just_ be Cas, no ‘and Jimmy’ to finish that sentence, and he wishes he’d told Dean more. Then, maybe, Dean would ask. Maybe Cas would have no choice but to tell him.

He wants to tell him.

“Actually, you told me a lot about Sam,” he says instead, hoping Dean doesn’t pick up on the tremor in his voice. “But you didn’t say much about you. I know you teach now, but . . . how did that happen?”

Dean blinks, caught off guard by the transition.

“Oh. Uh, there’s not a whole lot to say about me. I — I had a football scholarship, the first couple years, but I got a bad knee injury and I had to quit. Then . . .” he tenses a little. “Dad passed away. There was a lot of stuff to take care of, but mostly Sam, so I quit. Worked at Bobby’s full-time for a couple years, and then I went back for my teaching degree and — here I am.”

“I’m sorry. It must have been difficult.”

“Most thing are,” Dean argues lightly, and Cas smiles.

“Do you miss football?”

“Nah. I never loved it like Dad did, and knowing what we know about head injuries and whatnot, I’m pretty happy with how things worked out.”

“That’s good.” There’s another thing he’s been curious about, though. “Why teaching?”

Dean frowns.

“What’s wrong with teaching?”

“What? Nothing. I think it’s admirable. And it suits you.” _And I like your shirt all the way buttoned, and I haven’t thought a lot about the fact that you’re a teacher, but that’s probably going to change from here on out._

“You think?” Dean gives him a considering look and, dry-mouthed, Cas wonders if _he_ ever wears a tie.

For some reason, Dean chuckles, ducking his head.

“Huh. That’s good to know,” he murmurs, then takes a sip of water. “Anyway. I didn’t mind school that much, but I realized a lot of that came down to the teachers. So, yeah — teachers are pretty damn important. But I also loved books, you know — stories; they got me and mine through some shitty times, and I thought, hey, that might be cool. I could see myself teaching English, and I practically had half a degree, anyway, so . . . why not?”

“It makes sense,” Cas agrees, smiling. “I wish I’d had a teacher like you,” he adds, thinking of Dean’s kind nature, his care with his little brother . . .

Until Dean shoots him a sly look.

“I’ll bet you do,” he says lowly, and Cas just stares, utterly transfixed by the way words look and sound from that mouth.

Dean licks his lips, tongue quick and fleeting before it disappears again, leaving them shiny in its wake.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to shut the door?” Becky calls from the doorway, and Dean nearly falls out of his chair when her voice makes him jump.

“Jesus _Christ,_ Becky, no!” he snaps roughly, righting himself, and she flinches.

“Okay! Sorry!” she squeaks, then mercifully scurries off.

He sinks back into the chair, dragging his fingers through tawny hair.

“Freakin’ Becky, man,” he grumbles, then sighs. “I should probably get going, anyway. I got a class at 1:00.”

“Of course.” Cas rises, prepared to walk him to the door. “Thank you for lunch.”

“Yeah, thanks for putting up with me.” Dean shifts, clearly uncertain about something. “So — am I gonna see you this weekend or what? I mean, if we’re home by ten, obviously.”

Cas hesitates. He already told Dean he had sleeping issues, but Hester likes to have Claire overnight a couple times a month, and they’ve scheduled for this Friday.

And Cas remembers, vividly, what a shame it was to leave before the fireworks.

“I could take a nap.”

“What?”

“If we went Friday night. I could just take a nap on Saturday, or catch up the next night.”

Dean nods slowly.

“I don’t wanna mess you up.”

“I don’t mind.”

They look at each other, in that way they do, and Cas thinks it gets less uncomfortable every time.

“Okay. Yeah, that — that sounds good. Actually — I know a really cool club in the city.”

“Sounds like fun.” It doesn’t — Cas doesn’t care much for clubs, anymore, or the time they remind him of — but being with Dean, to his horror, is enough to convince him.

“Great. I’ll text you.” Dean hesitates, then moves to the door. “Later, then.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Dean lifts a hand, and is just about to pass through the doorway when something occurs to Cas.

“Dean.”

Dean swivels.

“Yes? Yeah?”

“You might . . . advise Becky to be discreet,” he tells him meaningfully, and after a moment, Dean pales.

“Shit. Charlie. Fuck, how did I not think of that?”

Cas hovers uncertainly before Dean turns sharp eyes on him, frowning.

“And why did you? You keepin’ me a secret, Cas?” He says it like he might be joking, but there’s real curiosity there.

Cas tilts his head.

“Are _you_?”

Dean’s mouth falls open, and then he laughs.

“Yeah, okay. Do you blame me?”

“No. So you shouldn’t blame me, either.”

That wonderful grin is back, and Cas almost sighs at the sight.

“I don’t. Have a good day, Cas.” He strolls out, clearly heading for Becky’s office, and Cas doesn’t even bother trying not to watch him go.

Mr. W’s in a much better mood today then he has been all week.

Claire mostly doesn’t pay attention, or care, even, but Mr. W’s not awful, and he gave her books, and even though he’s kind of a jerk, he doesn’t treat her like a child, so — you know. She’s definitely had worse teachers.

Because of that, she thinks it’s nice to see him cracking jokes again instead of looking like he’s going to snap at the next person who talks to him, even if it never actually happens.

Cas has been like that, too, since his stupid date Saturday. She’s been half-tempted to ask Mr. W what his trick is, because if Cas sulks around the house like a forlorn ghost for even another day, she’s going to lose her freaking mind.

The reality is, life sucks. Claire’s life sucks, and Cas’s does, too, but they haven’t been talking about it or crying in front of each other, and yeah, Cas has been tired and sad since — since the accident, but this is different.

She doesn’t know what to do about it.

But that’s par for the course, these days. Everything’s broken, and she can’t do a damn thing about _any_ of it.

It’s just — this time, it feels less like rotten luck, and more like her fault.

Because Claire’s not stupid, and again, totally not a child. And even if she were, she had it pretty much spelled out for her when they moved here.

_“I don’t know if I can do this by myself, Anna. It — it all feels like too much.”_

Anyway, Claire was expecting that, even if she wasn’t meant to hear it. She’d seen that hollow look in Cas’s eye for months, and it didn’t take her long to figure out what it meant.

Cas never wanted this, never signed up for it, and Claire is pretty sure that by the time she graduates, she’ll be sleeping in Anna and Rachel’s old room at Grandma’s.

Which is why Cas is being so pissy. She’s not exactly making it easy on him, and she’s definitely messing up his dating life. It’s just — no matter how many times she tells herself it’s inevitable, she can’t help it; it’s not what she wants. And maybe what they’ve got right now isn’t either, but she doesn’t have a time machine, and this is better than nothing.

This is all she has left.

“So, does anyone wanna tell me what this poem is about?”

Claire shakes off her thoughts, returning her focus to the lesson, and Kevin Tran raises his hand.

“He’s trying to court the lady he admires.”

“And he thinks _poetry_ is gonna work?” someone asks, incredulous, but Mr. W laughs instead of getting offended. He’s cool like that.

“Elizabeth Bennet agrees with you, buddy. But you gotta cut the guy some slack, alright? Old-timey courtship was pretty restrictive, and people were just doing the best they could. Heck, when I was a little older than you guys, I thought inviting my crush over to watch Harry Potter with me and my little brother was gonna get me anywhere.”

The class laughs, and Claire cracks a smile, although it’s hard to imagine Mr. W having trouble getting dates. He’s the kind of guy that makes Anna and Val raise their brows at each other after he walks by.

(Claire’s also heard some of her classmates gushing over how ‘hot’ he is, but Mr. W’s like, thirty, and that’s just gross.)

“ _Did_ it get you anywhere?” the skeptic asks boldly, and Mr. W looks startled.

“Uh.” He rubs the back of his neck, sighing. “Not as far as I’d have liked, to be honest.”

They all gasp, a small chorus of ‘ooh’s following, and Mr. W turns scarlet, eyes wide.

“What — not like _that —_ jeez, guys, how old are you supposed to _be?_ ” he sputters, scandalized, but it only makes her classmates laugh harder.

Mr. W hands out a worksheet not long after, and even though Claire intends to half-ass it, she ends up kind of getting into it, and it’s a little bit of a surprise when the bell rings.

She takes her time packing up her stuff, hanging back a little until most of the kids have left, and then she takes the little black Amanda Lovelace book over to the teacher’s desk.

“Hey there, Claire,” he greets her.

“Wow, it can learn,” she deadpans, even though she knows it’s rude, but Mr. W just chuckles.

“What can I do for you?”

She holds up the book.

“I came to return this. Sorry, I’m not done with Dickinson yet.”

“Nobody is,” he jokes, accepting the book. She gives it one last look, a little worried it somehow got damaged in transit, but she thinks it still looks the same as it did when he gave it to her.

(She managed not to cry all over the pages about people dying, at least.)

“Hey, looks good as new. Thanks for treatin’ it right, Claire,” he remarks happily, almost like he read her mind. She’s pleased by the praise, but not really sure what to do with the feeling, so she just sticks her hands in her pocket and mumbles, “Sure.”

Mr. W’s pretty smart, and she thinks he knows what she means.

“So, um. I have math next. But you said I should come talk about it.”

“Yeah, of course.” Mr. W has a warm smile, one that happens in his eyes, too, but it’s not patronizing like some adults. She doesn’t have siblings, but something tells her Mr. W is an older brother. “I’m usually here at lunch if students want help with anything, so you’re welcome to stop by then.”

“Okay, cool.” She hesitates, since she does have math, and she doesn’t really want to harass him, but— “Hey, um, I saw this at the Target, and they had this other one next to it. _Milk & Honey _or something. Is that — I mean, should I read that?”

“Hm.” Mr. W frowns. “That one’s a little tricky. I’m not gonna try and say you’re not mature enough, but if I’m remembering right, it, uh, it might be kind of a lot. I could probably arrange a copy for you to borrow, but . . . maybe you should talk to your parents about it?”

She swallows hard, fighting shallow disappointment and all the other, worse stuff that never quite seems to go away.

“Oh. I — I don’t—" she starts, but for some reason her voice leaves her, and that stupid lump that used to sit in her throat constantly is back and Mr. W is looking at her, totally patient and nice like most teachers aren’t, and she just knows if she tells him, he’s going to look at her differently. He’s going to _treat_ her differently. All adults do. “Yeah. I, um, I’ll ask my Dad.”

Cas counts, right? He’s not her dad, obviously, and she never even really thought they looked all that identical, but he’s the closest she’s ever going to have again.

Even if it’s not for much longer.

“Yeah, do that. Have him let me know, okay?”

Ugh. No way in hell is she going to ask Cas to call her teacher.

She tries to hide her disappointment, but can’t quite return his easy smile.

“Okay. Thanks, Mr. W. Have a good day.”

She hurries out of the room without waiting for an answer, seeing as how she just wasted a bunch of his time. It feels stupid and unfair, but people say that’s just life, don’t they?

It’s about time she started getting used to it.

“Oh, my God,” Valencia breathes. “I didn’t think they were real.”

Cas frowns, holding the pants up in front of him.

“They are, but I don’t think they’ll still fit.”

“What? Don’t say that! I was really looking forward to seeing Vintage Cas.”

He sighs, tossing them on the bed. He’s ninety-nine percent sure there’s no point in trying.

“Vintage Cas is dead, Valencia.”

“Long live Schmuck Cas!” Anna declares, and a moment later, some sort of heavy fabric hits the side of his head with a _thwap._

He turns slowly, one eye covered by black denim dangling over his face.

“What did you just throw at me?”

“Third-date-sex-raincheck black skinny jeans,” she returns airily, and Valencia snorts. Cas, for his part, is torn between amusement and horror.

“Excuse me?”

“ _Obviously,_ you’re not getting into your old pants, and also obviously, you’re trying harder on this date than you have on the others.”

“Because he wants to get into Dean’s,” Val interjects. Anna nods stoically.

“And because I am such an attentive, badass older sister, I anticipated the obvious, and have procured for you an updated pair of licentious, youthful-misadventure britches.”

“So you can get some,” Val clarifies, scoffing when Anna glares. “What? You brought it up.”

She sighs.

“I did. Alright, Cas. Go put on the pants and whatever shirt we need to laugh at you for thinking you should wear on your date.”

He’s pretty sure his glower is undermined by the pair of pants draped over his head.

When he does emerge from the bathroom, however, nobody laughs.

“Shit.” Valencia blinks rapidly, then repeats, “Shiiiiit.”

Anna just looks worried.

“Maybe this was a bad idea. What kind of club is it, again? Are you sure you’ll be safe?”

“What are you trying to say?” he asks, wary.

“Um, probably that she had no idea the trench coat was such a goddamn effective chastity device.”

“It’s really not,” he retorts, offended, but Valencia just raises her brows.

“You think so? Were you wearing it the last few times you got laid?”

He has to think about it for a minute, but—

“Oh. No, I—" he pauses. “But I like it.”

“And I’m sure the right person will, too,” she tells him kindly. “But for right now, we think your hot ex will be more interested in knowing you have an ass.”

If they only knew what his ‘hot ex’ was _actually_ interested in.

“Right. And the shirt? Are you going to tell me there’s not enough cleavage?”

“Actually,” Anna begins, clearly reluctant, “The shirt’s great. It fits a lot differently than it did ten years ago.”

“I thought it might be too tight.” He’d pulled it out on a whim, at the same time he’d retrieved the pants from a box in the closet. While he’d gotten it on easily enough, it’s a little clingy for his tastes. A part of him wonders, even, if he might be a bit too old to dress like this, but if he says that, his sister will throw something much worse at him.

“It’s not. Not for a club. We’ll see if you even make it there, once he’s seen you,” she adds, somehow managing to sound critical.

Cas flushes.

“I doubt _that_ will be a problem,” he tells her stiffly. “I will, after all, need to wear my coat there.”

It has amazed Cas, ever since Anna brought Valencia home, that they can groan at him in perfect unison.

“ _Please_ tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not,” he assures her, a touch smugly.

“Ugh. Take it off once you get inside, at least?”

“Yes,” Valencia agrees emphatically. “When we tell you to use protection, we are not actually talking about your coat. That’s too much protection.” She pauses. “It means you won’t end up getting to need the other kind.”

“Valencia,” Anna reprimands, but the twinkle in her eye betrays her.

Cas just rolls his eyes.

“I’ll take it off when we get to the club, alright?”

“That’s all we ask.”

“What’s all you ask?” Claire asks, appearing at the door. “Also, are you guys ready to go yet? Grandma just texted saying anyone who’s late doesn’t get cake.”

“Shit, see you guys there,” Valencia announces, and is out the door in seconds.

Anna stares after her, clearly considering doing the same, so Cas takes pity on her.

“I’m ready. Claire and I can meet you.”

“Oh, thank God,” she sighs. “You know Mom. It’s not an empty threat.”

Cas just smiles and waves her off, turning his attention to Claire.

“Are you all ready?”

“Yes. I do this like, every other week.” She gives him an assessing glance. “Wow, you look . . .”

He waits, and is not disappointed.

“Really weird,” she finishes. “You should drop me off. If Grandma sees you, she’s gonna have a fit. Or like, order an exorcism.”

“Thank you, Claire. I appreciate your heartfelt input. Since you’re being so helpful, I have to ask: would eyeliner be too much?”

He expects her to turn around and leave, lest they fall into a rhythm of not-totally-antagonistic banter, but she stays put, tilting her in consideration.

“Nah. If you’re going to do punk mid-life crisis, you might as well go all the way.”

With that, she does leave, step unmistakably smug as she saunters out of the room.

He couldn’t suppress his grin if he’d wanted to.

“I’m not even thirty!” he yells after her.

“Whatever!”

Cas beams. He has a good feeling about the evening.

He might even steal some eyeliner out of Anna’s handbag, after all.

Ten minutes later, he changes his mind.

The silence in the car starts out comfortably enough, but Claire is soon lost deep in thought, oblivious to his increasingly frequent glances, and when they arrive at Hester’s, she has something to say.

“Grandma’s cool if I stay all day, you know.”

Cas blinks.

“I . . . okay. Are you asking if you can stay here tomorrow?”

She side-eyes him, frustrated.

“No, dummy. I’m saying — you know. You can stay out late, or all night, whatever. You don’t need to worry about picking me up in the morning, is all. I’m fine.”

“But — I don’t need to stay out all night?”

“Ugh, yes, I get that, I’m just — I know you don’t _need_ to, but you _want_ to. Anna and Val said this dude’s like, ridiculously hot, and I know adults are gross and weird, or whatever, so _obviously_ it’s cramping your style to have to worry about me.”

Cas stares, dismayed.

“Claire, how many times do I have to tell you—"

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’ve heard you.” Claire’s fingers are clenching and unclenching around the edge of the seat, left leg bouncing impatiently. “I get it, okay? You feel like it’s your obligation to take care of me, but I’m not dumb. This isn’t what you wanna do with your life. I mean, there’s a reason you don’t have kids of your own, right? So I’m just trying not to get in the way of you like, living your life or whatever. So — so I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay?” she finishes hurriedly, and then she’s out the door before he can even respond.

Even if she were still sitting there, though — where would he even begin?

Obviously, Claire has abandonment issues; Cas didn’t need to talk to child psychologists to predict that. Anyone in her circumstances would, and though Cas does his best — whatever _that’s_ worth — to provide reassurance, it’s not the sort of thing that gets magically resolved through a few clumsy heart-to-hearts and the passage of time.

Still, he’s apparently underestimated just how much it’s skewed her perception of things.

Cas is — he’s doing everything he possibly can to hold on to her — to be _enough_ for her — because Claire is the most important person in the world to him, without question. He couldn’t even begin to say whether he was more afraid of losing her, or of failing her. And yes, she’s his niece, his blood, an _orphan,_ but before any of that, she’s _Claire._ Those are not the things that make her important to him.

Cas has literally watched her grow up; has spent years seeing her every day, lives closely woven, and sometimes he misses the easy friendship they had so much that all he wants to do is curl up in his bed and cry.

And no, despite his deep affection for her and the joy it has been to be a part of her life, Cas has never considered having children; but that isn’t because he specifically didn’t want them, or because he wanted other things, instead. It’s because he never wanted to be in the position of watching a child suffer because of his own inadequacy. Growing up in his own household, and then watching Jimmy and Amelia with Claire, has taught him that a child should never want for love and should always feel safe in their home; what’s more, it’s taught him that there are many different kinds of safety.

Children needed a lot, and deserved every last bit of it. Realistically, Cas knows he would never be enough, on his own, and even should he be willing and insane enough to try and share such a precious, terrifying responsibility with someone else, he’s never met a soul who’d come close.

Anyway, there’s a lot to say. But Cas doesn’t know when or how to say it. He doesn’t know how to make her _hear_ it.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, struggling with the impulse to go in after her, to settle this _now,_ because the idea that Claire gives so much weight to those insecurities, that she believes Cas is anything but grateful that she’s here — it’s unbearable.

But Cas has tried, countless times. And no matter how many times he says it, it’s apparently done nothing. How could once more — especially when it’s directly in response to her outburst — make the difference in what she’s willing to believe?

It won’t. The answer, he thinks, is to find some other way to tell her.

He just wishes he knew how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** SPOILERS **
> 
> Insecurity/self-worth issues: Following Cas's departure, Dean goes home and ruminates on his inadequacies; he's confident in his appearance, but he experiences severe doubts about his appeal in other areas, and alludes to other relationships failing due to those deficiencies; we can assume that is not actually why they failed, but in his mind, he, himself, isn't good enough, and he relies on his looks and deliberate performance to try and hold someone's interest.
> 
> Dean’s handling of Claire’s query about _milk & honey_ (Rupi Kaur): While Dean tells Claire to ask her parents, and he makes a strong effort to be tactful about suggesting she might not be the right age for it, the takeaway from the scene should be that he would advise against it. The reasoning here was that some of the poems can be rather explicit, which doesn’t necessarily present an issue on its own, but in conjunction with the themes, may prove a difficult read for some kids. I am a firm believer in being frank and open about sex and sexuality, but I felt that many thirteen-year-olds might not be ready to comfortably process that content; while every teenager is going to vary as far as what they can handle and when, I’d err on the side of recommending this one for audiences older than Claire. I apologize if you disagree; these are always tricky things to assess.
> 
> To be clear, that is not in any way a negative judgment of the work; this is strictly a question of suitable age range (and as far as I know, milk & honey wasn’t written for young adolescents, ergo, it doesn’t need to be suitable for them). The intent is just to show some of Claire’s struggle, navigating her particular situation, and more broadly, her struggle just being a kid (many will remember that frustration of being interested in certain things or wanting to explore, and encountering barriers on the grounds that they were not yet mature enough).
> 
> Role-based humor: In a flashback, Amelia makes a joke about Jimmy being her ‘wife’ because he’s fixing Cas’s tie. This joke is not for reader amusement as much as it is another example of the paradigm the Novaks come from, which Cas has always had to contend with; Jimmy and Amelia are good people, and they’re happy the way they are, but Cas will always feel alienated by this sort of status quo, as it represents a norm he doesn’t subscribe to. Role-based humor is ubiquitous — Cas himself refers to Anna as ‘Mom’ at some point when she nags him over self-care — but we should take care that it doesn’t seriously reinforce stereotypes, especially in reductive ways.


	14. Part II: i get stuck when you get sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: cat propaganda (or I think it is, anyway; Fabulous Brat has just informed me it's only cat propaganda if you're already a cat person), reference to past Dean/Lisa, reference to unplanned pregnancy, please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> **** Chapters 13 and 14 posted together. ****

_Lost in your heartbeat_

_Body moving on mine_

_Caught in the madness_

_Doubt the feelings inside_

‘ _Cause I know that you’re trouble_

_And I know that it ain’t right_

_But I want you, and I can’t get enough . . ._

_\- Wicked Love, Foxes_

Tonight, when Cas “Hello, Dean”s him, it takes Dean a while to find a response. His mouth is a desert, and the only distinguishable thought in his head is, “Holy _shit._ ”

Dean’s not sure what he was expecting when he opened the door; a rumpled suit and tie and that frumpy-yet-weirdly-appealing trench coat, maybe — you know, the usual.

And sure, the trench coat is there, but instead of frumpy, it comes off devil-may-care. Cas has on a tight black band shirt Dean fucking _recognizes,_ and he definitely doesn’t remember it fitting quite like that. The porch light is catching deep shadows in all the right places, and Dean thinks he might have to put his hands in his pockets just to stop himself from touching.

Beneath the coat, he can just barely identify the shapely silhouette of jean-clad thighs — _t_ _ight-black-_ jean-clad thighs, that is, because Cas is clearly trying to give him a heart attack. Dean’s dying to know what it all looks like without the coat, and he wouldn’t be all that surprised if it actually kills him.

Of course, then there’s the hair. The fucking _hair_. It’s still a mess, but there’s a little bit of gel in it, and the chaos looks more like deliberate sabotage tonight; there’s not a doubt in his mind that everyone who sees them come into the club is going to assume they took a sexy detour getting there.

“Is there something wrong with how I look?” Cas finally asks, because Dean’s just been gaping at him for who knows how long, and he nearly trips over himself in his haste to reassure him. Cas looks fucking perfect ( _perfectly fuckable,_ his dumbass brain whispers) and it would be a crime for him to think anything else.

He’s just about to say so, when he catches a curious gleam in those baby-blues.

“Depends on what you dressed for, Cas,” he says instead. “If you planned on a wholesome evening out, shooting the shit with your buddy, no; but if your aim was a torrid night of debauchery and filth . . . that’s a different story.”

To Dean’s surprise, Cas colors a little.

( _Ask me if that’s an option,_ the dumbass brain screams hopefully, and Dean shushes it.)

“And if I was hoping for something in between?”

Dean isn’t really ready for a torrid night of debauchery and filth, but his pulse quickens a little anyway, though it’s just dumb, harmless flirting.

He deliberately rakes his gaze over Cas’s figure, enjoying the scenic route from bedhead to boots.

“Leave the trench coat on, then.”

Cas smiles.

“Can I get that on record?”

“What for?”

“Out of context, it sounds like an endorsement of this coat.”

“What?” Dean mock-gasps. “What’s wrong with your coat?”

“Ha. Funny.” Cas smooths his hands over the lapels. “It doesn’t matter. I like it.”

Dean senses a story there, and he kind of wants to ask, but there’s something sad and maybe even a little wistful in Cas’s eyes as he looks down at it.

Another time, he decides. Cas was happy when they were flirting, and Dean — Dean wants Cas to be happy tonight.

Because then Cas will be that much closer to falling for Dean’s evil plans, obviously.

“Me, too, Cas. I shouldn’t, but damn it, you make it work.” Cas blinks, clearly needing a moment to process that, and Dean carries on like he _isn’t_ as bad at this as he was eleven years ago. “So, you ready?”

“Uh. Yes. Yes, we should get going.” Cas quickly steps back so Dean can lock the door behind him.

That taken care, of Dean turns around and—

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

Cas shoots him an alarmed glance.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“You’re _still_ driving that piece of-uh, that car?”

Cas relaxes, scowling.

“Not really _still._ I didn’t take it with me when I moved. It’s perfectly fine.”

“Unbelievable.”

“How is it — _you’re_ driving _that._ ”

“Hey! Baby’s not a _that,_ Cas, she’s a _her._ We’ve been over this.”

Cas is just shaking his head.

“ _Anyways,_ ” Dean continues, trying not to laugh. “You mind if we take Baby? Feels like I’m cheatin’ on her if I get in any other car.”

Not to mention Dean’s not sure how he feels about getting in the Lincoln, the sight of which is already giving him vivid flashbacks to all the afternoons they spent making out in it.

“Wow,” Cas mutters, tone heavy with sarcasm. “You’ve actually gotten worse.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean’s prepared to be offended, and bizarrely looking forward to it, as they head for the Impala.

“Well, I suppose I just assumed you’d outgrow that. I mean, it was cute when you were sixteen, but now . . .”

“You sayin’ I’m not cute anymore?”

There’s a pause.

And then—

“No,” Cas sighs, with audible regret. “No, you’re still very cute.”

Dean unlocks the door without a word, certainly not blushing furiously as he gets behind the wheel.

 _Moonshine_ is about forty minutes away, and though the quiet’s not really uncomfortable, Cas seems to have other things on his mind. He sits there, staring out the window like he’s a million miles away. It’s worrisome.

“So, am I gonna see you at Kickoff?” Dean tries, hoping to engage him.

It takes Cas a moment to so much as twitch in response, and Dean frowns.

“You okay, buddy?”

Cas blinks, then nods in his peripheral.

“Yes, sorry. Just . . . family drama.”

Dean wishes he didn’t have to focus on the road.

“Yeah? You wanna talk about it?”

Cas is quiet for long enough that Dean thinks he must be considering it, but then he shakes his head.

“No. I’d like to just forget about it for now.”

Which — does Cas not trust him? Or does he really just not want to think about it?

It’s probably a combination of both, he decides. And either way, he doesn’t blame Cas; he’d be shocked if Cas had already set aside his misgivings at this point.

“Alrighty, we can do that. Instead, you should focus on what you’re gonna draw with the body paint.”

“ _Body_ paint?”

“Body paint,” Dean confirms. “What’s it gonna be, Cas?”

Cas pauses.

“Well. Who am I painting?”

Dean’s really not expecting that question, and it’s understandable that his brain shorts out upon processing it. Maybe a little less understandable is that as soon as it’s back online, it’s ninety-percent vivid images of Cas’s fingers dragging cool, slick lines down Dean’s skin, leaving bright neon marks in their wake.

Fortunately, driving is enough muscle memory at this point that they’re not really in any danger.

“Uh. Yourself?”

“Oh.” Cas doesn’t sound disappointed. He _doesn’t._ “In that case, probably random lines and shapes. Art has never been a hobby.”

“Fair. Maybe you could at least do some polka dots, though?” He thinks for a moment, then grins. “Or cat whiskers. And a nose.”

“ _Cat_ whiskers? Why would I paint my face like a _cat_?”

“Uh, seriously? C’mon, man, you basically _are_ a cat.”

Cas’s mouth falls open a little, but Dean’s too busy watching the road to try and interpret his face.

There’s a long, considering silence.

“Interesting.”

Dean scowls. He’s not digging that tone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Jesus, don’t even. You can’t just start shit and then go, ‘nothing.’”

“I didn’t start anything _,_ Dean,” Cas retorts smoothly, and holy _shit,_ what a lie.

“How is that meaningful pause followed by a cryptic ‘interesting,’" he quotes in wildly inaccurate falsetto, “—not starting shit?”

“You should probably focus on driving,” Cas states calmly, which — un-fuckin’-believable.

Dean’s about to say as much, until Cas adds:

“And technically, _you_ started it.”

“Are we _seriously_ doing this?”

“We aren’t doing anything. I’m just not sure how, of the two of us, _I_ am the one who’s a cat.”

“Because — because _look at you_ ! How are you not a — wait. Are you trying to say _I’m_ the cat?”

“You are very prickly.”

“And you’re _not_?”

“And territorial.”

“When was I—"

“Your car.”

Dean shuts his mouth.

“Okay. Well, that’s a dog trait.”

“Clearly, you’ve never met a cat.”

“I’ve met plenty of cats, and trust me, they don’t give a shit.”

“They feign disinterest, but they give a great number of shits, Dean.”

Cas’s delivery is so dry and condescending Dean is speechless for a moment, and in the next, they’re both laughing.

“Dude. _Dude,_ ” he wheezes.

“You know what I meant!” Still, Cas doesn’t even sound annoyed.

“Do I, man? I’m not even sure. Of course,” he adds, calming a little. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it, since you seem to be an expert on cats. Which pretty much proves my point.”

Cas hums.

“I concede,” he says solemnly, and Dean glances over, curious.

“Really? You agree you’re a cat?”

“Perhaps. I am very territorial.”

“Uh, about _what_? Last I checked, you’d cornered the market on ‘no fucks to give.’”

Dean can feel Cas staring at him, even if he can’t safely stare back.

“I just told you, Dean,” he says softly. “Feigning disinterest.”

Dean swallows, hard. The levity of the moment is gone, replaced by a tension so thick it would probably just jiggle in amusement even when confronted with a freshly-sharpened machete.

He’s not ready for it, doesn’t know what to make of it, so he panics.

“Uh. So — I guess I can look forward to a great number of your shits, then?”

And of course, they start laughing again.

After that, they maintain easy conversation the rest of the way. It’s a relief — totally.

It doesn’t change the fact that Dean’s heart still seems to think it’s a race.

They end up leaving the club at ten.

Cas tries his best, and it’s not even that things go _badly_ , but they’re just . . . not quite right.

There are nice parts. In fact, there are _very_ nice parts. There’s the way Dean looks at him, once he’s awkwardly shrugged out of his coat, a look that makes every inch of Cas’s skin burn hot, that makes something sharp drag slowly down his spine. It’s a look made more potent by the fact that Cas has seen it before, on the face of a boy he wasn’t allowed to want, telling him it sucked that they were interrupted.

It’s a look that makes Cas wonder if he’s allowed, now; that makes him wonder what’s stopping him.

(Everything.)

And then there’s the way Dean’s finger, dripping hot pink paint, draws quick lines across his cheeks before he has a chance to protest. Cas stares at him, at the way Dean’s eyes literally glitter with mischief in the blacklight, and Dean takes advantage of his stupor to press a glob to the tip of Cas’s nose. His mouth moves, turned up at the corners, and Cas can’t hear what he says, but the shape looks like, ‘meow.’

Cas keeps looking long after those lips have stilled, and he thinks Dean might be looking back, because neither of them notice the tipsy young lady stumbling past them in time to avoid a collision. Dean’s paint pot upends over Cas’s hand on impact, just before said hand reaches for his shoulder to steady him.

It leaves behind a bright pink handprint; Cas looks at it, transfixed, and thinks he must be a cat, after all.

There’s also the way the club is so busy he and Dean must dance closely enough that the points across their body keep coming into contact, like they’re two overlapping wavelengths.

And of course, there’s the way the crowd only grows, pushing them closer still, and then it feels like they’re just one.

(At some point, he can actually feel the motion of Dean’s hips, two points knocking briefly against his own, and Cas catches himself wondering if the movie’s as good as the trailer.)

(He requests they get another drink, after that.)

So, maybe those things are more than ‘very nice.’ Maybe they’re fucking incredible, to the point where he worries about the eventual destination of whatever is happening here with renewed fervor. Still, they’re not the only things, nor are they quite enough to distract from the others.

The music is too loud, and it makes Cas’s ears ache and his head throb, when all he wants to do is allow himself to get lost in Dean’s proximity. His drinks are too sweet, and though he only has a few, they combine with his headache to make him feel unsteady. The lights flash too fast and colorful and bright for eyes already stinging from the sweat dripping off his brow, and with so many bodies other than Dean’s crushing against him, it reminds him of the times he’d deliberately seek out this aggressive form of disorientation. It’s too much, and he doesn’t like it.

It doesn’t help that there’s something dangerous in the way Dean is looking at him, tonight. As much as it thrills him, as much as he can’t help but bask in it, it doesn’t change the fact that it feels like too much, too soon, because it’s all making him feel weak in ways he can’t afford to be.

Dean notices (how could he not, watching Cas like he has been, gaze like a physical touch in the strange reality of the club) and gradually, the dangerous look fades to concern.

They’ve found their way back to the dance floor, by then (Cas can’t decide if it’s better or worse than the edge of the bar), and have made it through about a song and a half before Dean stops and yells something at him.

Cas squints, at a loss, so Dean closes back in and puts his lips right up next to Cas’s ear, just like he had at the concert.

It’s no less harrowing the second time around.

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

Cas’s body locks up, even buffeted as it is by the dancers around him. He turns his head, and their cheeks brush.

“Is that a flirtation?” he manages.

He thinks he hears Dean chuckle, but it’s hard to tell.

“No, Cas, it’s an offer of rescue. How do you feel about breakfast?”

Cas frowns, not that Dean will be able to see it.

“This still sounds like a flirtation, Dean,” he protests, concerned, and is startled when he feels a hand slip into his. He can’t see Dean’s face, eyes directed toward the shell of his ear, and he thinks he should probably be panicking.

“Come on,” Dean shouts, turning to lead Cas off the floor.

And Cas — Cas decides he’ll just . . . wait and see.

It’s freezing outside, compared to the club. Eager though he is to get his coat, he hesitates as they approach he car, still not sure where they’re going or what will be expected of him when they get there.

Or even how he feels about it, either way.

Dean smirks, circling around to the driver’s side.

“Front seat, not back, Cas.”

Cas reddens. That _is_ where he stopped, apparently.

“I didn’t—"

“Sure you didn’t,” Dean snorts, and Cas glares at him before climbing in and putting on his coat.

Dean does the same, and it’s at this point that Cas notices something familiar about the leather jacket as Dean pulls it on.

“Oh.” He stares, surprised, and — well. “You still have that.”

“Huh?”

Cas reaches out, unable to help himself, and touches two fingers to the soft, worn sleeve. Dean’s gaze follows their path, and he visibly swallows.

“Uh. Yeah. Only gets better with age, right?” He looks up to meet Cas’s eyes.

“Right.”

Dean blinks, then quickly turns and starts the car.

“So, uh. Anyway. There’s this wafflehouse a couple blocks away. You hungry?”

“Actually, very. I didn’t eat.”

“Oh. Man, you must be starving. Let’s go.”

They pull into the parking lot a few minutes later, and Dean makes a weird motion once they’re out of the car, like he’s going to put an arm around Cas’s shoulder, but then it ends up awkwardly behind his own head.

“Yeah, so, uh. I’ve never been here before, but it gets almost five stars on Yelp,” he mumbles.

“Oh. That’s good.”

“Yep.”

Cas gets comfortable in the booth the hostess directs them to, headache already receding in the quiet diner.

“Here you go, kitten,” she winks, and it takes him a moment to remember what Dean did to his face.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, fighting a blush.

Dean doesn’t sit; instead, he seems to be waiting for the hostess to move, and with a raised brow, she steps aside.

He slides in right next to Cas.

“Dean. What are you doing?”

“I don’t wanna get sunburned.”

They stare at each other, Cas overwarm and dumbfounded and Dean beaming back at him.

“Uh, hon. It’s ten-thirty at night,” the hostess points out, vaguely concerned, and Cas would send her an apologetic glance, but he can’t look away. Dean hasn’t left him a lot of space, and their elbows are bound to knock as they eat. It will be very annoying.

He’s looking forward to it.

“Yeah, okay, fellas. Sandy’ll be right with you, then.”

“Thank you,” Dean offers, still looking at Cas.

“Sure,” she says, sounding amused, and a moment later, she’s gone.

Finally, Dean turns to his menu, freeing Cas from the spell so he can do the same. It’s hard to focus with Dean this close, which is ridiculous, considering how close they were dancing twenty minutes ago.

If you could even call that dancing.

There’s a sharp intake of breath next to him.

“Wait, what — a _waffleburger_ ? Shit, _yes._ ”

Intrigued, Cas peers over his shoulder at the picture, big and glossy in the center of the page. A double bacon, white cheddar cheeseburger with grilled onions and mushrooms, squished between two buttery, golden-brown waffles.

Cas isn’t proud of the noise that escapes him, but to be fair, he hasn’t eaten since his PB&J at lunch.

Dean whips around to stare at him, and their noses brush. They freeze, inches apart, Dean’s eyes wide and shocked and _lovely_ —

Until he lurches back, to the edge of the bench, before hastily pulling his menu after him.

He lets out a small cough, and it takes Cas a moment to process as he slowly retreats to his own space.

Alright. Perhaps — perhaps he’s misread things.

At least Dean didn’t change sides?

The silence is vaguely agonizing until Sandy arrives. She’s not there for long; they both just want a waffleburger, Dean’s with extra bacon.

A few minutes later, Dean turns, subtly shifting closer, and Cas eyes him warily.

“So. That really isn’t your thing anymore, is it?”

And for a moment, Cas is mildly outraged, because _excuse him,_ but _Dean_ is the one who pulled away.

(Not that Cas wouldn’t have if he hadn’t, of course. Cas didn’t want to kiss Dean again for the first time in a wafflehouse.)

(Or at all. Obviously. Clearly, even if he’s going along with things for now, he would never — he wouldn’t let it get that far. That’s a bit much for penance, isn’t it?)

Dean’s face takes on a funny cast.

“The club,” he suddenly blurts. “The club — it, um, you weren’t that into it.”

“It was fine.” He feels like an _idiot._ O f course that’s not what Dean meant. As far as Dean was concerned, ‘that’ had _never_ been Cas’s thing, not for real.

Anyways, it _was_ fine. He certainly hadn’t minded sharing a personal bubble with Dean. And yes, it was too loud, too smoky, and definitely too many people, but he’d do it again, if Dean asked.

“Yeah, no. I don’t think it was. Sorry.” He smiles ruefully. “I guess I gotta try harder to get to know you again, don’t I? Or else I’ll keep taking you on shitty da-uh. Outings.”

Cas tilts his head. He can be obtuse, sometimes, but he’s almost positive Dean was going to say ‘dates.’ Have they definitely been dates, then? Has Dean been thinking of them that way?

Or is this some sort of calculated artlessness, designed to endear?

He wishes he could ask.

“They really haven’t been bad. I hadn’t been to a concert in years. And I do regret missing the fireworks.”

Dean half-smiles, but he studies Cas with serious eyes.

“Alright. So, tell me. What _do_ you like to do, now?”

Cas looks down, fidgeting with a sugar packet, unsure. A long moment passes before he comes to a decision.

“I like this,” he says quietly. _I like being with you._ “We don’t even have to go out. We used to have fun just staying in.”

Once he’s said it, Cas worries Dean will protest, accuse him of not _actually_ having fun with him, but then a grin begins to form on Dean’s face, because yes _,_ that sounds like—

“I didn’t mean—"

“Yeah, Cas?”

Cas’s jaw snaps shut, and he braces himself. Green eyes twinkle.

“You wanna come to my house and watch Harry Potter?”

Oh. Cas quickly looks away, because — because actually, that sounds absurdly perfect — then forces himself to calmly meet Dean’s gaze. He shrugs.

“It’s been a long time since I saw it.” Not since Claire was ten, and they had to stop partway through Goblet of Fire when things got too scary.

Dean looks back, and they sit, Cas holding his breath as they study one another.

“Yeah, alright,” Dean finally says. “It’s been a while for me, too.”

In the next moment, Sandy slides their plates in front of them, approach unnoticed, and they both startle.

Dean composes himself first, flashing her a grin.

“Thank you, Sandy.”

“No problem, sugar.” She gives him an appreciative onceover, then catches Cas’s eye and winks.

“Eat up, kitten. It sure does look good tonight.”

And then she saunters off, leaving Cas to try and hide his embarrassment in an enormous bite of burger.

He’s not very successful, if Dean’s quiet guffaws are anything to go by.

“How is it, _kitten_?” he teases, but the waffleburger actually lives up its picture, and Cas just gives a muffled grunt, pointing at Dean’s own plate.

“What? Try it?”

Cas nods emphatically, still working on his own overambitious mouthful, and Dean gamely picks up his burger.

“Uh ma goff,” he moans a few seconds later, a dazed look in his eyes, and they don’t talk much after that.

Cas is okay with it, though. His food is divine, and even if it’s not real, he and Dean are starting to feel like friends again.

They’re back at Dean’s by midnight, which is pretty late, but still earlier than Dean would have liked. He knows he’s got no right to be disappointed, since he and Cas have technically been together since eight, but he can’t help it. It’s been a fucking good four hours.

Dean hovers by the Lincoln as Cas unlocks it. He’s worried for a second, that Cas means to just hop in the car and drive away like whatever’s been going on tonight is somehow one-sided, when Dean _knows_ it isn’t, but then he pauses, facing Dean with blue eyes that quietly smile in the dark.

“Thank you for the nice . . . outing, Dean.”

Dean narrows his eyes a little, and swears he sees Cas smirk.

“Sorry about the club,” he tells him again, choosing to ignore it. He’s being sincere, but only kind of; he _is_ sorry he got things wrong again, even though Cas had kind of told him — but he’s not sorry about relearning what Cas’s face feels like beneath his fingertips, or about knowing how it feels to dance with him, to look down at him as their bodies ghost together in the suggestion of something more, something he’d be learning for the first time.

He’s definitely not sorry about the way Cas was looking at him throughout it all.

“Don’t be. I’m not.” Cas pauses, and if Dean didn’t know better, he’d say there was something _shy_ about the look he gives him next. “Besides. Next time, I get to watch Harry Potter. It was a worthwhile investment.”

It’s hard not to grin like an idiot. This is all a game — always was — but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s fun.

Especially since he has a shot at winning this time.

Cas’s mouth moves, catching Dean’s attention, and he watches as those soft, chapped lips curve, growing into a wide, gummy grin. It looks absurd with the thick pink cat whiskers, the daub on his nose, and the sight of it all is so adorable, Dean wants to grin himself.

Only, it turns out he already is. Has been, all along.

“What’re you grinning for?” Dean asks, though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer. Cas shrugs, and his smile doesn’t dim.

“I’m not sure. You started it.”

“Yeah, well. What can I say? I love me some Harry Potter.”

Cas chuckles, shaking his head, and when he looks back, his eyes are bright with something that makes Dean’s breath catch.

“Good night, Dean,” he says softly, and gets in the car.

Dean lifts a hand, steps back so Cas can back out, and watches until he’s disappeared around the corner.

He makes it all the way to the front door before he realizes he’s still grinning.

Cas has barely made it through his apartment door before his phone goes off, and he doesn’t even try to pretend his heart didn’t skip a beat.

>> friday at six? bedtime will be safe, I promise.

<< Saturday?

>> jesus, a guy has to book early with you, doesn’t he?

>> fine, sat at six

>> hey what about kickoff? you never answered

Cas frowns. Had Dean asked?

<< Attendance is compulsory, I believe, so I’ll be there.

>> so I’ll see you tomorrow?

Tomorrow?

<< Why would you see me tomorrow?

_Not that I object,_ he adds hurriedly, only to regret it once he hits send. Even after their not-a-date-in-name-only, he doesn’t want Dean to think—

>> seriously dude? check your calendar. kickoffs tomorrow.

Cas does, though now he knows what to expect.

September 29 th . Damn.

Well, on the bright side, he’ll see Dean tomorrow.

<< Oh. In that case, I will be seeing you tomorrow.

>> can’t wait ;)

Cas smiles, pleased. Dean said that last time, too. And Cas knows the rest of the sentiment is, “because I’ve _already_ waited a decade for my revenge,” but he’s filled with a strange giddiness tonight, and stubbornly decides to take it at face value.

<< Likewise, Dean.

A couple minutes pass, and Cas supposes that’s the end of it, when another text comes through.

>> yeah :) night Cas

<< Good night, Dean.

It takes Cas a long time to fall asleep. Instead, he lies awake.

And he wonders.

Cas arrives at Hester’s mid-breakfast, and with the exception of Alfie, they’re all surprised to see him.

And then there’s a collective double-take.

“Um, what’s on your face?” Claire asks, ever tactful.

“What?”

“Castiel, you’re a cat,” Alfie explains, and Cas’s hands fly to his cheeks.

“Oh, my god,” Claire mutters, making a face. “I’m gonna be sick.”

“It’s . . . cute,” Hester tries, puzzled. “But why are you wearing it?”

Claire shoots her a disbelieving look.

“My friend and I went to a club last night. There was paint.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” His mother still looks baffled.

Anna, on the other hand, is gaping in horror, and he frowns at her.

“Is something else wrong with my face?”

“Yes?! You said — _last night._ ”

“And?”

She stands.

“ _Cas._ You didn’t wash your face before bed!”

Oh. That’s fair.

“I was — tired. I forgot.” Tired and distracted are effectively the same thing, aren’t they?

“How can you just _forget_ to wash your face? Think of future-you, Cas!” she scolds.

“Maybe he was _distracted,_ ” Valencia mutters, tugging on Anna’s sleeve, and Cas gives her a sharp look.

“I don’t care how distracted he i-oh. Ohhh. Never mind.” His sister quickly sits. On her other side, Claire buries her face in her hands.

“This is so gross,” she whispers.

Hester, confused and unimpressed, handles it by changing the subject.

“Castiel, would you like to get a plate? Anna wasn’t sure if we’d see you this morning, or we’d have waited.”

“No, thank you, Mom. I had a waffleburger at eleven last night,” he adds, lest she try and push. He doesn’t like to eat first thing in the morning, anyway.

Back when he lived with Jimmy and Ames, he’d just steal bites off Claire’s plate while he drank his two cups of coffee. She’d make a game of it, throwing pieces of sausage at him when her parents weren’t looking, and Cas would catch them in his mouth every time. The game never failed to amuse her, and she’d have to stifle giggles in her napkin so neither of them would get lectured.

In reality, that was unnecessary. Cas was pretty sure her parents knew about the game, especially since Jimmy had watched Anna train him to play it many years before; most likely, they found it just as funny.

“What’s a waff—"

“Cool,” Valencia interrupts his sister, smiling brightly. “But maybe you’ve, you know, worked up an appetite since then? Maybe?” She fixes him with a hopeful look.

“Cas usually isn’t very hungry after he sleeps, dear,” Hester explains gently, and she bites her lip, nodding.

“Oh, right. Of course. Silly me.”

She looks straight at him, brows raised in question, but he shakes his head. He’d tried to tell them that was never even on the table (which for some reason had only made them dissolve into giggles), but even so, Valencia looks disappointed.

After breakfast — and after Anna forces him into the bathroom to wash his face — Hester asks about their plans for the day.

“The O’Hare’s are having a barbecue tonight, since the weather’s been so nice; you all are welcome to come, if you’re not busy.”

“Actually, I have a company event. I thought Claire might come with me.”

“Excuse me?” Claire says, head snapping up from her phone. Cas would like to believe she’s texting friends, but he knows she’s just playing games on it. “You didn’t say anything about that.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I forgot it was happening today.”

“Yeah, well, why would I wanna go to your stuffy work party?” The ‘with _you_ ’ is unspoken, but clearly heard.

“You don’t have to,” he tells her quietly. “I — I thought you might have fun. Everyone is supposed to bring their family.”

The room falls silent, Claire’s upset expression faltering at the word.

She looks away.

“Yeah, well. You’ll have to go by yourself, then.”

She marches back upstairs without another word.

Lisa Braeden, of all people, is at kickoff.

Cas recognizes her, despite their total lack of history, because Dean’s been chatting with her and a small child he presumes to be her spawn for the last half hour.

Cas, for his part, has been standing by himself for just as long, contemplating his ignorance of what the phrase ‘can’t wait’ means; the fact that Dean has yet to so much as make eye contact suggests he does not, in fact, know.

“Oh, hey there, Dreamy.”

Cas starts, and Charlie smirks at him.

“Dreamy?” He reluctantly tears his eyes away from Dean.

“Becky says she’s caught you napping at your desk _twice._ ”

He tenses.

“What else has she told you?”

That earns him a suspicious squint.

“Um? What else _should_ she have told me?”

Cas is an idiot. That’s what she should have told her.

“Nothing. I just — she seems the type to . . . exaggerate.”

“Oh, _boy,_ you have no idea,” she mumbles, clicking her tongue. “Any-who. Oh, look! It’s Dean!”

All-in-all, very unsubtle.

“Is it?” he asks dryly, but Charlie just smiles, unfazed.

“And Lisa, too! How nice!” She swivels her head, blinking up at him innocently. “You know Lisa, right?”

“She was a grade behind me, so — not well.”

“Right, right.” Charlie hums, then lets out a deep sigh. “They made _such_ a great couple.”

She’s baiting him, he knows, and although he’s literally sick with curiosity (and that is absolutely all that has his stomach in a knot), he refuses to play along.

Despite his pointed silence, she continues.

“Man, he was _devastated_ when they broke up.”

 _Why did they break up_ ? he wants to scream at her, because it can’t have been anything that bad, given how friendly they’ve been for the last thirty-fucking-minutes, and oh, _great,_ now Dean is holding the child’s hand and wandering off toward the inflatable slide.

“And he’s so good with Ben, too,” Charlie adds, wistful.

Fuck it. Cas can’t help himself, doesn’t want to, and Charlie will have succeeded in torturing him either way, so he might as well.

“Ben?”

“Lisa’s son.”

“Ah. What about his father?”

He swears he sees a flash of something vicious and triumphant in her eyes, but then it’s all sympathetic smiles.

“Oh, he was never in the picture. I know Ben _wishes_ Dean was his dad. I mean, she and Dean almost married each other, after all.”

The news shouldn’t surprise him, but it does. The knot feels a thousand times bigger, suddenly.

Cas swallows, attempts to affect casual interest, but neither of them are fooling anyone here.

“Why didn’t they?”

She frowns, and this time it seems genuine.

“Ben. They were technically broken up, but — she thought it wouldn’t be fair to Dean. He still wanted to marry her, though. I don’t think he’s ever gotten over it.

“That’s not a surprise,” he admits, terse. She seems to expect something from him, and he won’t embarrass himself by asking for more details, or — God forbid — revealing that this news makes him irrationally angry with Lisa, though he’d done much worse to Dean, and with much less of a reason. “He had a sizable crush on her when we were — when we knew each other.”

That, somehow, catches her off guard.

“He _told_ you that?”

“He didn’t have to.”

And something about that has her furrowing her brow, suspicious and confused.

“You sound like you’re jealous.”

“I was. I thought you got ‘older and wiser?’” he mocks, but she just waves a hand.

“I _mean —_ you sound like you’re _still_ jealous.”

He levels her with a sharp stare. Boss or not, she sought him out just to needlessly rub salt in the Prometheus of wounds.

“Wouldn’t you be if you’d — what was it?” he tilts his head. “’Missed your chance’ with someone like Dean?”

_And were now having the fact thrown in your face._

She flinches at his tone.

“Right. I — just making conversation,” she mumbles.

“Indeed. If you’ll excuse me, however, I need to visit the men’s room. And Charlie?”

“Yup?” She looks at least as uncomfortable as he feels, now, with a little guilt thrown in.

“You shouldn’t worry. I’m sure if it’s meant to be, it will be.”

As he walks away, he swears he hears her mutter, “Pretty much what I’m afraid of, dude.”

It’s a terrible idea, from start to finish, but as soon as he emerges from the men’s room and spies Lisa alone by the buffet table, he doesn’t think twice.

He tries for a nonthreatening, surprised smile as he approaches her, tilting his head like he’s unsure.

“Lisa, right?”

She looks up, smile cautious, but friendly.

“Yeah — Cas Novak, wow. I didn’t even know you were back in town.”

Yes, well, he hasn’t exactly been out socializing, whatever Anna and his mother may think about it.

“Understandable. It’s only been a few months. I haven’t seen you around the office, but I _am_ in accounting.”

She laughs.

“I’d make a joke about accounting nerds, but . . ” she teases, and he lifts a shoulder.

“Yes, well, it’s generally unnecessary; we’re our own joke.”

“Gee, now I feel bad. Anyway, you wouldn’t have seen me; I do some press things for Charlie, but I’m not really a formal employee. Though kickoff’s practically a community event, these days. She does love Halloween.”

“I noticed,” he says dryly, and she laughs again.

“So, are you here with your family?”

“Oh, uh — no. They couldn’t make it.”

For a moment, he thinks she’s going to ask, but then she shuts her mouth, opting for a sympathetic smile.

“What about you?” he remembers to ask, despite knowing the answer.

“Oh, it’s just me and my son. He’s off getting into trouble over there with Dean.” She waves a hand in that general direction, and he can’t help it. His gaze follows her gesture, and when it lands on the man in question, a squirming, giggling boy tossed over his shoulder, it lingers a little too long.

When he looks back, Lisa’s watching him.

“Do you know Dean?”

“What? Uh,” he starts, but doesn’t finish, at a loss as to how to answer — or how Dean would want him to answer, because he must consider that, as well.

Strangely, Lisa takes it in stride.

“Ben’s not his, if you were wondering.”

He blinks. He wasn’t, though maybe he should have been.

“You must know Dean very well,” he offers by way of answer, like he wasn’t just briefed on their history twenty minutes ago.

She smirks.

“You could say that. I almost married him.”

And _there —_ that’s his chance to sate his curiosity without having to do it at the dubious mercy of his boss.

“Do you wish he had?” he blurts out, utterly without finesse, and she arches a brow.

“Um — I mean—” he tries, but Lisa just starts laughing; clearly, she’s a very good-humored person. “Sorry, I shouldn’t—”

“No, no, it’s fine. I just — anyways.” She clears her throat, and he resists the urge to press the cool glass of punch to his burning cheeks. “Honestly? No.”

Cas doesn’t know which feeling is more prominent; surprise, or relief.

“But I often wish I’d wanted to,” she continues, rueful.

“Why didn’t you?” He might as well go for broke, and Lisa doesn’t seem terribly bothered by his bluntness (rudeness). What’s more, if Dean had been anything like he was with Cas when they were together, he’s amazed that she really _didn’t._

(Though perhaps he’s giving a teenage relationship too much credit.)

“I just . . .” She shrugs. “I thought of it, of becoming a parent, and it’s like — it suddenly hit me that he and I would have to get to know each other. That we really _didn’t._ In a lot of ways, we were just . . . playing our roles. And we were pretty good at it, sure, but even if it worked in high school and college, it wasn’t enough for marriage, or parenthood. We needed to be _more_ , and I guess — we weren’t. And there had to be a reason for that, right?”

 _Dean was devastated when they broke up._ He wonders if this remains a great disappointment for Dean, if he nurses this wound still, one for which he can get neither revenge nor resolution. Lisa’s reasoning is sound. Certainly, she made the right choice for her.

Still, that doesn’t make it easy.

“Anyways, it’s a shame. Things would have been a hundred times easier for me, if we’d worked,” she jokes.

Cas hesitates.

“Well. It was brave of you, not to try and force it.”

She smiles, expression lightening, and Cas can see how Dean would be heartbroken. Lisa has sweet, clever eyes, and a warm, lovely (albeit very-white) smile. He believes Charlie that they were great together.

“Thanks for saying so,” she tells him, sincere, and belatedly, it occurs to him to wonder why she’s being so open about such deeply personal things, his own blunt questions aside.

Maybe it’s all common knowledge, bound to reach his ears in even worse detail if he stays in town — or perhaps Lisa is one of those people who likes to ‘over-share.’

He has a feeling both of these things are wrong, though.

“Lisa — why are you telling me all of this?”

Cas swears he sees something devious in her smile before she ducks her head and it’s hidden behind a curtain of dark waves.

“It’s funny, Castiel. You and I — we never really knew each other, in school.”

“Perhaps,” he says slowly. “I still thought it was nice to see a familiar face here.”

“I’m glad,” she returns sweetly. “But you know, seeing you again reminded me — I heard a rumor or two, back in the day.”

Not for the first time, Cas wishes, desperately, that there was a way to expunge the whole period of his youth from all living memory.

“I’m sure you heard plenty of rumors. It _was_ high school,” he manages, smiling weakly.

“About you and Dean,” she clarifies, and of course his past will never, ever cease to haunt him. It just usually has the decency to happen in his own goddamn head. “Honestly, I didn’t give them a second thought at the time. But here you are, and now you’ve got me wondering — were they true?”

He hesitates.

“What is it to you?”

He realizes, as soon as it’s out, that he’s basically just confirmed them for her.

“ _Well,_ that look on your face, for starters.” Her smile turns wry. “I can’t deny I like a little drama, as long as I’m not at the center of it.”

He frowns.

“That implies there’s another reason.”

At that, the amusement turns contemplative.

“Dean — he was always — I mean, he was great, when we dated. Hell, I slept with someone else while we were on a break, and we were back together when I found out I was having Ben — and he wanted to make it work, anyway! He said it didn’t matter, and damn, I believed him. I still do.” She shakes her head. “Really, on paper, he was perfect. And we were good together. But . . . but Dean was also — sometimes he could be — God, I don’t know.”

Lisa runs a hand through her hair, a little frustrated.

“Sometimes — he’d make me feel like there was just something I was _missing_ about it all, you know? And just now, we got to talking about him, and I remembered all those weird, random rumors, and I thought — ‘aha .’ Maybe it was _you._ ”

Cas just stares at her in a petrified sort of silence, praying the woman before him is simply crazy. The idea that things between Dean and Lisa could, in any way, have been affected by him — affected in such a way that ultimately left Dean _devastated —_ is unbearable.

Abruptly, Lisa reaches out, patting him on the shoulder before giving it a squeeze.

“It looks like Ben might be wearing him out. I better go get him; it was nice seeing you again, Cas.” She pauses. “I hope your family can make it, next time.”

He waves dumbly as she walks away, and a moment later, a choked laugh escapes him.

Sometimes, over the years, he’d look at everything his twin brother had, and he couldn’t help it. In the weakness of those moments, he’d retreat to his room and fall asleep on a fantasy where after he met Dean, he told his friends exactly where to shove it, and by some vague, undetermined miracle, Dean stayed with him, was _still_ with him, and instead of slipping off to the mother-in-law suite all alone every night, he went home to Dean, who still looked at him like he was something special.

And he knows, of course, that he’s built it up way too much in his head, using Dean as some kind of broader symbol for all the things he wants and needs and is never going to have; he knows that, in reality, he and Dean would never have lasted, not through Dean’s swan-like transformation and certainly not through the years that followed.

Still, it’s funny that this woman, who was offered all the things Cas has furtively daydreamed about over the years and _turned them down,_ is here today, and assumes that he has somehow managed something even close.

Cas sips his punch, bitter and forlorn, and wishes someone had had the sense to spike it.

Charlie is watching him like a fucking hawk, and Dean’s pretty sure her prolonged greeting with Cas was ninety-percent scare tactic and ten-percent ‘friendly-reminder-that-I’m-your-boss,’ so scratch that, _one-hundred-percent_ scare tactic.

Regardless, he’s been at stupid kickoff for two hours, and as much as he enjoyed catching up with Lisa and hanging out with Ben, it doesn’t change the fact that he spent all day looking forward to seeing Cas under the assumption that he’d do more than just _see_ him.

(Because last night was great progress, and he wants to make the most of forward momentum, of course.)

And Charlie’s screwing it up.

If the little sister of his found family sticking her nose in his private business isn’t bad enough, Dean idly glances back to check on Cas while Ben is in the bouncy castle, only to find him in deep conversation with _Lisa._ And maybe he’s just being paranoid, but it actually looks pretty serious, which — what could they _possibly_ have to talk about?

He’s not sure which thought frightens him more; that Cas is trying to pick up his ex, or that they’re talking about _him._

But he probably _is_ just being paranoid, right? He kind of can be, when it comes to Cas, and who could blame him? More likely than not, they’re two bored adults loitering by the punch bowl making obligatory small talk, and it’s all just forgettable, meaningless bullshit. Dean’s pretty sure that isn’t Cas’s seductive face (though Cas’s face always seem vaguely seductive to Dean) and since Lisa’s really not one to randomly overshare with strangers, it’s probably nothing to worry about.

Still, Dean can’t stop glancing over every few seconds, trying to make sure. It’s a good thing Ben is preoccupied with all the games, or he’d start to get bored and fuss and then Dean couldn’t keep staring at his exes.

It’s just — Dean’s had a few relationships crash and burn (read: all of them). He doesn’t think too hard about it, because there’s no point, but sometimes, shit builds and festers and the fact that he cannot and probably will never be able to make it work catches him off guard and smacks him in the face. And Lisa? More than any of the failures that came after, Lisa is the one that hurt the most, the one that truly represents how totally fucking broken he is. Because if he couldn’t make it work with her, the girl of his dreams and a wonderful woman who remains a close friend, then he just can’t make it work.

And he shudders to think what she could be telling Cas right now. Because this thing with Cas is definitely gonna crash and burn — that’s the whole fucking idea — but he’s barely gotten it off the ground and he’s not ready for it to happen yet. And until he is, he needs Cas to believe it won’t. He needs Cas to believe they could work, the two-halves-of-a-whole, forever kind of work Dean gave up on when Lisa told him they weren’t it.

He still remembers the day she told him. They’d been back on for three weeks after a month apart, a stupid month and a stupid fight in a string of them that Dean could never quite pinpoint the origin of, but which he nonetheless thought were the last hurdle to them being ready. And fine, he was twenty and it was before his Dad died and he’d had to drop out, but he was so fucking sure this was it for him — it _had_ to be — and he thought she was, too.

And then she’d come to their shared university apartment and broken the news about Ben.

Of course, he’d assumed the kid was his, at first, and while he’d panicked a little, because he was _twenty_ _,_ he didn’t reconsider for a moment.

But it turned out that Lisa had already reconsidered for both of them, and just like that — it was over.

 _Maybe this is a sign,_ she’d said. _Maybe_ _—_ _maybe we’re not real. Not the way we’re supposed to be._

He remembers shaking his head, tears pricking at his eyes, because the girl he’d been with for years, was sure he’d be with for the rest of them, was telling him it wasn’t fucking _real._

 _Don’t do this,_ he’d tried to ask. He’d tried to tell her that it _was_ , tried to give her the words he could never quite seem to get out, but even then, at the critical moment, about to lose _everything_ _—_

They still wouldn’t come.

 _I know,_ _Dean,_ she’d said anyway, holding him tight. _Me, too._ _It’s just not the right kind._

And that was that. It was over, and the worst, most painful fucking part about it all was the fact that she turned out to be right.

No matter how much he cared about her, no matter how much he wanted it to work, it wouldn’t have been enough, and it had _hurt_ , how little time it took for him to understand that once all was said and done.

And Dean — Dean knew _exactly_ where to lay the blame, even if he’d succeeded in fooling himself for years.

He watches Lisa wave at Cas, start walking towards him and Ben, and quickly averts his gaze. Lisa’s not stupid, and he doesn’t want her figuring out what he realized years ago. It ruined things for her, too, whether she knows it or not.

Ben lets go of his hand (and Jesus, what a great kid, standing there quietly while Dean was so preoccupied with his brooding that he barely noticed Ben had wandered back to him), stuffing his lollipop in it for safekeeping, and runs to his mom. She catches him in her arms with a laugh.

“Hey, sweetie. Were you good?”

“I’m _always_ good,” he insists, and she gives him an amused look.

“Uh-huh.” She turns to Dean, holding a hand out to take the candy. “Here, you go catch up with your queen, or mingle. I heard Benny and Jo were setting up a poker game.”

He hopes his smile is free of any lingering, reminiscence-related misery.

“Yeah, I should go keep an eye on them. I’ll see you guys later, okay?”

They say goodbye, and he strides off, not really looking for Benny and Jo. He has another destination in mind, and a glance around the premises shows Charlie nowhere in sight. Maybe he can steal a few minutes to finally talk to Cas, or even figure out what his chat with Lisa was about _—_

“ _Handmaiden!_ ” Charlie shouts, and a moment later, something heavy lands on his back, her arms looping around him. “I’ve been looking for you!”

Dean tries not to groan.

So much for _that_ plan.


	15. Part II: times have changed since you held me in your arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: mild reference to past Dean/Lisa, reference to incontinence/pelvic floor issues (the same clarification as last time applies; Dean makes a joke, but as Sam points out, it’s not something to laugh about), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> My sincere apologies for the wait; I didn’t intend to let it go that long, but I took my last final, and while I still have work, I’m hoping to get these out pretty quickly, from here! Thank you very much for your patience, and I hope you’ve all been doing well ♡

> _ It would never be the same again _
> 
> _ Can I ask – do you even miss me sometimes? _
> 
> _ I want to be the one that without, you’d be alone _
> 
> _ Want to be the one that you will not let go _
> 
> _ Go _
> 
> _ Do you even miss me sometimes? _
> 
> _ \- I Wonder, The Him ft. LissA _

Despite his (ever-advancing) age, Cas sometimes still has the logic and maturity of an adolescent, and right now is definitely one of those times.

Spreadsheets forgotten, he scowls at his text thread with Dean. ‘Can’t wait,’ he’d sent. And then not one, but _two_ emoticons. One of which was a _winky-face._

And yet, in spite of all that  — not to mention  the fact that he went out of his way to find out if Cas would be at kickoff  — they never even spoke.

Is this part of the game? Did Dean deliberately take him on an overall fantastic date the night before kickoff (and fuck Dean, if  _that_ wasn’t a date, then there’s no such thing) just so he could turn around and ignore him the next day? Is he sitting somewhere, at this very moment, quietly laughing to himself as he imagines Cas agonizing over the night and the text messages and kickoff like —

Like he’s doing right now, damn it.

Or  _worse,_ Cas suddenly wonders, did he spend all that time chatting with his ex, only to realize that he doesn’t actually need or want revenge, after all? Does Cas need to confirm their appointment for Saturday, lest he get there and find the house shuttered up because Dean fucked off to wherever unfairly beautiful men who are officially over their fake exes’ shenanigans fuck off to, never to be seen (by Cas) again?

Dean would call, if that were the case — right? He’s ultimately a reasonable person, and it’s just  _polite_ to let someone know you found better things to do than exact terrible revenge on them via insincere romance.

Cas flicks off the screen, tossing it on the desk just before the message alert chimes, and he swears he has it back in his hand before it even goes quiet again.

_Dean._

>> sooo. didn’t get to talk to you @ kickoff.

_You didn’t even try!_ Cas wants to shoot back, because if that wasn’t bad enough, Dean  has now taken two days to say anything at all.  T wo days that felt more like  _ten,_ he might add  ( but won’t, because he can see how that maybe makes him sound a tad pathetic ) .

>> but uh. I’m not actually sure how to get a face to face w/you if I don’t want the world to hear about it from becky.

>> you wouldn’t happen to know?

Cas’s frown deepens. What the hell is Dean playing at?

The  reality is, he should tell Dean to fuck off. He’s too tired, and honestly, too  _fragile_ for whatever game this is, and even if he wasn’t, he’s beginning to think this is all  just  way too advanced for the likes of him.  And besides, will dragging it out really make Dean happy? Actually, it might;  _s_ _till_ , the best thing for both of them, he’s sure, would be for Cas to call it quits.

Except as soon he thinks that, his brain helpfully conjures a picture of Dean’s face when Cas finally looked over the divider at Mis s ouri’s, pale and devastated  by Cas’s betrayal,  a nd Cas slumps in his chair, because maybe he’s just being the same selfish coward he always was. Maybe he owes it to Dean — maybe he owes it to  _himself —_ to play along, just a little longer.

At least until he gets to watch Harry Potter again, right?

<< You don’t trust Becky? She’s a very good admin.

>> dude. c’mon.

<< Alright. I could do coffee after work.

>> hmm. make it dinner.

<< I already have dinner plans.

<< You’re welcome to order pie, though.

Hester’s expecting them tonight, and even if she wasn’t, Claire’s upset before he went out Friday has been hanging over him ever since, and he needs to be especially careful not to feed her doubts, right now.

Anyway, a few minutes pass, and he frowns down at his phone as he waits.

Perhaps something came up where Dean is? It is a work day, after all.

>> ok

>> coffee then. cafe from last time, 5:30?

<< That works. I’ll see you then.

>> k, later

Work day or not, Cas stares at the last few texts for a long time after. Nothing in particular jumps out, but the way they closed things still doesn’t quite sit right with him.

Well  —  he supposes he’ll have to figure it out at coffee, won’t he?

Happy hour parking is completely different than its Saturday morning counterpart, and Cas doesn’t appreciate having to walk three blocks without a coat.

(He’d thrown it back over his chair at work on a whim, a ridiculous whim which is bound to remain unsatisfied and yet proved tempting enough for him to chance it.)

(What? Perhaps there won’t be anywhere to sit, and Dean will want to take a stroll while they have their coffee; anything is possible.)

Dean looks a little ruffled himself, when Cas arrives.

“Good, you still came,” he jokes. “I was worried you’d take one look at the parking situation and cancel.”

“It didn’t occur to me, or I might have,” Cas  grumbles, though it’s a lie . “I had to park three blocks away.”

“ I didn’t do much better,  but hey  —  w orth it, if I get to see you.”

Dean makes a face right after he’s said it, like he didn’t mean to, which is just — Cas doesn’t even know. Cas’s own face feels overwarm, suddenly, even though this is just part of a horrible game he knows better than to play, and Dean hastily shuffles toward the line so they can get their coffee.

Of course, this still doesn’t account for what happened — or rather,  _didn’t_ happen — at  K ickoff.

“Ah, yes,” he says eventually. “You didn’t really get to, at Kickoff.”

Dean flinches, glancing back.

“Right. Yeah, no, I — actually, that’s kinda why I wanted to talk to you in person.”

A sudden chill passes over  Cas as he reassesses the situation. Dean texted, asking to meet with him in person,  a nd now he’s saying he wan ts to  _talk._

_Did_ he change his mind? Is he about to tell Cas ‘thanks, you’re a complete fucker, but this just isn’t worth it to me anymore?’

Cas isn’t nearly as relieved by the prospect as he should be.

(As any sane, healthy person would be.)

“Ominous,” he mutters, and Dean laughs uncomfortably.

“No, it’s — let’s get our coffee first, okay?”

Five minutes later, they’ve miraculously claimed a table and Dean is giving him a semi-serious look while Cas quietly tries not to freak out.

“So . . . you know how we’re kinda each other’s dirty little secret?”

“Uh.”

“As far as a certain redhead is concerned, I mean.”

“Oh. Yes, I—" And then it clicks, and Cas promptly feels like an idiot for not figuring it out on his own. “Oh. Of course.”

It was obvious, the most logical conclusion he could have and should have drawn, but i nstead, he was too busy fretting because Dean might be  _done_ playing games with him.

It’s fucked up, is what it is.

“Yeah,” Dean huffs. “Kickoff is her realm, and she sees all, basically. I, uh. I’d sorta forgotten that.”

“ I did, as well.”

“Kinda sucked,” Dean mumbles. “Was looking forward to seeing you.”

Dean’s looking down, rubbing at the back of his neck, and for a split second, Cas buys it; it’s exactly what he’d wanted to believe Friday night, what left him mildly crushed on Saturday,  and t he words, ‘I was really looking forward to see ing you, as well’ are on the tip of his tongue, ready to tumble out.

But then Dean glances up, green eyes just visible beneath those maddening lashes,  and i t  _could_ be a nervous gesture, part and parcel of the feeling he’s trying to express  — but it could also be a calculating check for Cas’s reaction, and  it is th at possibility  which stays  Cas’s response.

Just because he’s playing along doesn’t mean he has to make it  _easy._

“Yes, well. We’re here now.” He puts his coffee to his lips so he doesn’t have to see whatever look Dean  is giving him.

“Right.” There’s a pause. “I, uh, I guess I was a little worried, too. We still on for Saturday night?”

Cas arches a brow.

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

Dean frowns, look ing  a little frustrated, and opens his mouth.

And then he shuts it.

“Cas,” he says abruptly, eyes curious. “Are you — did I hurt your feelings?”

Cas almost drops his coffee.

_W_ _hat_ ? Oh. Oh,  _no_ . No, no, no, he was just — he was being  _aloof,_ for God’s sake, refusing to read his half of Dean’s carefully crafted script, not —

Except he  _does._ He sounds like a  —  a  miffed  _partner_ .

“No,” he says quickly. “I didn’t think much of it, at the time.”

But  Dean  just starts to grin, because  _of course,_ this is probably better than anything he’d  ever thought to hope for, and Cas miserably wracks his brain for some way to get the situation back in hand.

(Not that it really ever was, but still.)

“’Course you didn’t.”

“While your company _is_ very enjoyable,” he continues slowly, ignoring Dean’s smug little nod, “There were plenty of other people there. In fact, I even ran into a few from school.”

_There_. Dean’s smile drops.

“Uh. Right. Yeah, I — I saw you talking to Lisa. Didn’t think you two knew each other.”

“Not  really . But it  was  nice to see a familiar face.” He hesitates. “She seemed nice, as well.”

Dean tenses furth er.

“Yeah?”  H e laughs, a dry, flat thing. “’Nice’ as in ‘you think she’s hot’, or as in ‘you two gossiped about me’?”

Cas frowns.

“’Nice’ as in ‘not a n ass .’”  _Unlike you’re kind of being,_ he wants to add, but  to be fair, he’d be panicking in Dean’s shoes, as well.

“Oh.” Dean deflates a little, then sighs. “Yeah, Lisa’s great.”

“I was sorry to hear you didn’t work out,” Cas offers softly, an olive branch, though if anything, Dean just looks  _more_ frustrated.

“You and me both,” he mutters, eyeing his coffee with something like accusation.

And  Cas  _meant_ to discomfit Dean, but it seems to have backfired a little on himself, because  now he’s wondering if Charlie was right. Maybe Lisa’s Dean’s one-that-got-away, and he’s still hoping things will work out for them.

He has no idea what to say, in any case, and the silence stretches as they drink their coffee. Dean does so with focused dedication, evidently uninterested in filling it.

Cas feels like an idiot.

It seems like seconds and hours both before  Dean  finally lifts his cup, draining the last of it  without making eye contact, and  Cas  isn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved that his  own is just about empty.

“I suppose I should get going soon,” he eventually manages, and Dean nods slowly, eyes narrow as he studies Cas.

“Right. Your dinner date.”

“Ye s?  M y mother’s expecting me.”

And just like that — Dean brightens.

Something flips over in Cas’s stomach.

“Oh, yeah? Cool.”

Strange.

“Dean,” Cas starts, fighting the beginnings of a smile. “Were you — _jealous?_ ”

Dean’s jaw goes slack, red creeping in beneath the freckles.

“ _What_ ? No! No, I — why  the hell  would I be jealous?”

Cas doesn’t have an answer for that, but  even so, it’s an obvious lie. And fine, it could be another bit of performance art, but  Cas doesn’t really care.

Because the last time he saw Dean  like this, saw his odd, sullen mood clear in just that way —

T he rumor  m ill was insisting  Cas had hooked up with Lilith , and Cas had just denied it.

Which  _meant_ _—_

“You  _were_ jealous!”

“E- _excuse_ me?”

“ When you thought I slept with Lilith,”  Cas insists, shameless in his sense of triumph. “It wasn’t about the hot cheerleaders, a fter all.”

Dean’s face undergoes a series of contortions, and then his jaw sets.

“Yeah, well, I was probably right to be, ‘cause you probably did.”

Which  — o uch.

“I di—" he starts to exp l ain,  but Dean won’t hear it.

“ _Anyway_ !  Maybe  I  just  don’t like the idea of somebody else takin g  up all your time right when we’re — when we’re about to mend a bridge.  So what? ”

Reluctantly, Cas lets the other thing slide.

“Well, then, you don’t have to worry, Dean. I haven’t exactly been making a bunch of new friends.”

Dean scrutinizes him for a long moment, clearly searching for the lie,  and  Cas  almost laugh s . If Dean only knew what a pathetic life he lead, he might  actually decide revenge was unnecessary at this point. As it stands, it’s his for the taking.

He almost tells him as much.

Abruptly, Dean looks away, bringing his empty coffee cup to his lips. It doesn’t quite hide the pleased smile, though, and Cas can’t bring himself to be angry about it.

“Right, well. I’m sure you’ll make friends soon.” He smirks. “Ask Becky what her favorite book series is, and—"

“And I’ll never get rid of her. I’m not an idiot, Dean.”

“So you’re not that desperate yet. That’s okay; I’ll be your friend until you get there.”

It’s Cas’s turn to hide a smile in his own cup,  which is sadly empty afterward.

“I appreciate that — really, I can’t even say how much—" Dean snorts. “But I do think I have to go, now.”

“Alright,” Dean sighs, and — oh, God, he’s pouting a little.

“I’m glad I came,”  Cas says, then  can’t help but add,  “And it’s nice to know you actually were jealous.”

“I was  _n_ _ot_ —"

“I mean, it’s difficult to explain how devastating that was to my teenage self-esteem,” he continues, standing, “To think you’d rather hook up with a hot cheerleader than me.”

Dean rolls his eyes with a huff, getting to his feet and following Cas toward the exit,  and  Cas wonders what he’d think if he knew it had been a little true.

“Yeah, right. Like it wasn’t fucking obvious I’d rather date you,” Dean grumbles, and Cas nearly trips over the threshold. Dean holds the door back so it doesn’t hit him.

“It wasn’t, actually.”

“Seriously?”

“You said yourself that you didn’t have a chance with a cheerleader.”

“Because I didn’t.”

“But it made it sound like you wanted one.”

“Of course it did, that was the _point_. I didn’t have a chance with you, either, but it wasn’t fucking hard to tell which one I actually wanted! I was embarrassed.”

Cas scowls.

“Well,  _I_ couldn’t tell.”

“Yes, you could.”

“I couldn’t be  _sure._ ”

“I told you I was bi, man!”

“What, and liking men automatically meant you’d like me?

Dean comes to a stop.

“Had you fucking  _seen_ yourself?” he demands, incredulous,  and Cas stares.

Dean stares back.

Then he flushes, beet red, and starts walking again.

“Oh, my god,” he mutters. “How are we having this conversation?”

“I’m not sure, myself.”

They’re quiet a moment, until a gust of wind hits and Cas shivers. When he’d devised this plan, he’d known it was a long shot, but assumed he could  surely tolerate a short walk.

“Dude, where the hell is your coat? I know you’re not too embarrassed to wear this one.”

“Uh. At the cleaners.”

“And you — what? Don’t own another one?”

“No,” he lies.

“ _Jesus._ ” Dean scrubs a hand down his jaw, then — oh,  _yes_ — seems to come to a decision.

He stops, shrugging out of that wonderful leather jacket, and when Cas holds out his arm without even bothering to protest, Dean starts putting it on him instead of just handing it over.

“It is unfortunate,” Cas agrees solemnly, mouth dry. It’s hard to fight the grin, but he does his best.

Dean steps back, giving him a suspicious look.

“I want that back when we get to your car,” he warns him.

“Of course, Dean.”

Cas huddles into the lingering warmth, into the woodsy, spiced scent coming off the collar. It’s just as wonderful as he remembers.

Better, maybe.

“Dean,” he says after a couple minutes. They seem to have mutually decided to walk very, very slowly, though Dean has to be getting cold, and really, there’s no good reason for him to follow Cas to his car in the first place. “Back then — when we had that talk, I really didn’t know.”

“Yeeeah, sorry if I don’t believe you.”

Cas sighs.

“At the time, I pretty much had my pick of hookups.”

“My point exa—"

“ _Hookups,_ ” he repeats meaningfully. “Teenagers have a shockingly low standard for that kind of thing.”

“I guess.”

“So other than that — I didn’t really know what I had to offer.”  He pauses, then adds, quietly, “I had no idea how to make you want me.”

Dean’s silent.

Then he takes a deep breath, and when he speaks, he sounds tired.

“Yeah, you did. You just didn’t realize it.”

Cas doesn’t know what that means, but he’s pretty sure he’s not allowed to ask. As it stands, he’s doing exactly what he meant to avoid, which is pick at Dean’s wounds for his own peace of mind.

The jacket suddenly feels a little less warm.

Still, it’s a hardship to part with it when they reach his car.

It’s unnecessary, but Dean starts getting things ready for their movie night  half-an-hour before he probably needs to, restless and apprehensive over what the night may have in store.

Part of him is still shocked that Cas even _wants_ to sit on his sofa and watch Harry Potter with him; Dean had been tentatively worried and excited about it since their late-night breakfast, but the coffee date pretty much took a giant dump on all expectation and he’s been high-strung and off-kilter since.

He still doesn’t know what to make of Cas’s — confessions? He’s n either sure why they were given or where they even fit into things,  at this point,  but more importantly , whatever feelings of success he  might have enjoyed after the club, he’s  starting to rethink.

Like, Dean’s been worried from the start that Cas would know _exactly_ what he was up to, and resist that much harder for the knowledge; the fact that he mostly didn’t, Dean chalked up to his own abilities and Cas’s weakness for a pretty face.

Now, though? He’s not so sure.

Cas played him like a nerdy violin prodigy on a goddamn Stradivarius back in high school. Games don’t come naturally to Dean, and while he likes to think he’s mostly figured them out by now, he’s starting to wonder — is he being blind?

Is there a chance that Cas is playing to  _win_ here?

Dean’s been thinking about it all week;  a bout the big, sad blue eyes, the barely-there smiles, the suspicious . . .  _vulnerability._ (The flirting, that seems to come as easy as breathing — to  _both_ of them.) About how  Cas admitted to his own insecurity from back then, like he thought their romance had been anything but  one big, elaborate joke  to him.

And then he somehow got  _Dean_ to talk about it, totally unprepared,  way  too honest, and doing a piss-poor job of hiding  much of anything.

And now —  Cas is happy to come to Dean’s house and watch  _movies._

Which, okay, that’s pretty innocuous, on the surface, but this is  _Cas._ If it wasn’t good enough for him when they were kids, what’s with the sudden interest now?

It is exactly that line of questioning that leads  Dean to a horrible thought.

See, Dean is actually pretty hot now. And last he knew Cas, Cas wasn’t overly concerned with shit like feelings ; u nless that’s changed, maybe he’s not actually interested in watching movies at all.

Maybe this is a  _seduction._

And if that  _is_ the case, if Cas is just playing along here until he gets what he wants, with the added bonus of  _once again_ making Dean out to be the fool, then — then — well,  then Dean ha s no idea what to do with that.

Anyway, there’s still a good thirty minutes until six by the time he’s finished tidying and popped _T_ _he Sorcerer’s Stone_ into the DVD player, all set to pace the room as he broods to the menu music, but instead, _Heat of the Moment_ suddenly starts blasting over it.

Dean steels himself, then gingerly plucks it off the coffee table and swipes the answer button.

“Hey, Sammy, what’s up?”

“Dean! Hey, not a whole lot. Haven’t heard from you in a while, so I thought I’d check in.”

Dean winces.  Sam’s not wrong; Dean hasn’t been calling nearly as often as he usually does.

“Right, yeah, sorry about that. New school year and stuff, not to mention I figured you’d be just as busy with yours.”

And if his job has actually been the least of his worries the last month, well — it’s for a good cause?

Sam huffs a laugh.

“You’re not wrong there. Anyway . . . so, what’s new with you?”

To be honest, a big part of the reason Dean’s been hesitant to pick up the phone is this whole thing with Cas. Four years his junior or not, Sam can read Dean like a book most of the time, and Dean’s not even going to pretend this is a story he’d approve of.

No, he’s pretty sure he knows  _exactly_ what Sam would have to say about all this, and he’d rather not hear it, thanks.

“Oh, you know. Nothin’ much.”

“Really?”

Dean briefly pulls his phone away, giving it a suspicious look; Sam’s ‘really’ came back way too sharp, and Dean somehow doubts it was just the phone’s speaker.

“Yes,” he says slowly. “Really.”

“Okay. So . . . what’s, um, not new, then? That’s just been going on?”

Oh, _hell_ no.

“Hmm, I dunno, Sammy. I pretty much wake up, have coffee, take my morning dump—"

“ _Dean._ ”

“Seriously, what the hell are you trying to ask me?”

“Nothing!” Sam protests —  _way_ too quickly,  Dean might add . “I just — want to know how my brother is doing.  W hat he’s been up to. I care about you, obviously.”

Yeah, just no.  Sam is a sentimental, tenderhearted flower, but this is weird, even for him.

Nope, Dean knows what’s going on here. The Queen of Moondoor has struck again, and Sam is probably one red flag away from booking the next flight to Kansas so he can defend Dean’s honor from Cas.

Honestly, sometimes Dean thinks Sam is even less over it than _he_ is.

“Obviously,” Dean returns dryly, and before Sam has a chance to make even more of an ass of himself, begins to tell him about basically everything he can think of that  _isn’t_ Cas, because he’s a grown-ass dude and he refuses to indulge his little brother’s passive aggressive snooping. If Sam wants to know anything, he’s  going have to come right out and ask  about it.

(Not that Dean will answer, but still.)

He’s just about done recounting Ms. Tran’s bladder wisdom when Sam finally snaps.

“Oh, my god, Dean, I  _know_ all that. I—"

“Aw, hell, Sammy, are you experiencing bladder issues already?”

“What? No — but even if I was, Dean, it’s not a joke. And treating it like one is exactly why people are embarrassed to talk about it and get help when they have problems — especially women! Did you know that one in three women experience pelvic floor issues at some point in—"

Dean briefly holds the phone away, frowning at it.

“ _Dude_. Seriously? Chill, man. I was just being an ass.”

Sam sniffs.

“Yes. Yes, you were.” He clears his throat. “ _Anyway,_ that’s not what I called to talk about.”

“Aha! So you  _did_ call to talk about something! ‘I care,’ my ass.”

“What? No, I didn’t — and I  _do_ care, Dean, don’t be a dick.”

Dean just waits, silent, until Sam takes a breath and — here it comes.

“ _So . . ._ I, um, I heard that — Cas was back in town?”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Uh-huh. Is he?”

“Yeah, that’s — wow. You know, interesting. What do you — I mean — how is he? Have you guys caught up, at all?”

Like, he’s just embarrassing himself at this point.

“Right. How  _exactly_ do you expect me to answer that when we both know if I say yes, you’re going to have a seizure?”

“I’m not!” his brother insists, pained. “But — _is_ that a yes?”

“ _Dude._ I’ve seen him around,  is all . And he pretty much  looks the same as he always did.” Except hotter, somehow, because Dean’s discovering a weird sort of trenchcoat fetish he  hadn’t previously kn o w n about. “Jeez, you and Charlie, man.”

“Look, we’re just worried about you—"

“ _We?_ So you’ve been talking about me?”

“What? I — no. No, we just . . . talk, okay, about stuff, that happens to be going on, and she mentioned it.”

“Wow. That was pretty weak, Sammy.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Dean’s about to shoot back a spectacularly witty retort, but before it can make it out, the doorbell rings.

Have they seriously been doing this that long, or is Cas just really excited to see Harry Potter?

(And maybe try and get into Dean’s pants. God, he doesn’t even know anymore.)

“Was that the bell?”

“ Yeah, I better go.”

“Oh.” Dean doesn’t like the sound of that ‘oh.’ “Who, um, who’s coming over?”

“Nobody. I ordered a pizza.”

A pause.

“Okay. I’ll just wait while you get it, then.”

“Nah, you don’t gotta do that. I know how busy you are,” Dean tries, but by all accounts, they inherited stubbornness from both parents.

“I don’t mind.”

He can practically  _see_ the bitch-face through the phone.

“Yeah, well, maybe  _I_ wann a be alone with my pizza.”

There’s a longer silence this time, one full of judgment.

The bell rings again.

“Cas is coming over, isn’t he? Oh, my God, Dean—"

“It’s not Cas, okay? Anyways, I gotta go. Later, bitch.”

Dean hangs up, trying not to panic, and makes a run for the door.

Behind him,  _Heat of the Moment_ starts playing  once again.

“ So, what is this, anyway?” Claire asks. “Date five? Anna says it’s “getting serious.””

She does the finger quotes, just like Jimmy always told Cas not to.

They’re driving to his sister’s house, and while this week, Claire seems more resigned than anything else, he can still sense the hurt behind the words.

The reality is, he doesn’t want to talk about Dean to her, or anyone else, but he’s going to have to give her  _something._ All the unexplained secrecy is doing is making her worry more, and Claire doesn’t deserve that; there’s more good than harm to be done in letting her in a little, so  that’s what he has t o  do .

He can do this, he assures himself. Claire’s thirteen and only has memories of Cas at his (dubious) best. There’s no reason to worry she’s going to somehow fill in the blanks on her own, and so long as he’s careful about what he says, things will be fine.

“It’s really not a date, Claire,” he tells her, although at this point, he thinks that might be a lie. “He’s an old friend.”

“An old friend,” she repeats.

“Yes. We hung out in high school. Anyway, we’re just going to his house to watch Harry Potter, like we used to.”

Actually, it all sounds very reasonable when he puts it like that.

But for some reason, Claire does a double-take.

“What?” he asks, worried. She blinks at him.

“Nothing. I just — didn’t know you were that nerdy before.”

“Yes, well,” he sighs. “You might be surprised.”

She nods, eyes far away.

“Yeah. I bet.”

They reach Anna’s, and though Claire’s farewell is somewhat abrupt, it’s more distracted than upset, so Cas decides to count it as a win.

The lack of conflict means he gets there a little earlier than he’s supposed to, and he hopes Dean won’t mind. He  _could_ just wait in the car —  possibly even primp a little, God help him — but to be honest, he’s been waiting for this all week.

And if a part of him is a little anxious over how they left things after coffee, so what? It’s still just a small part.

Of course, that part grows the longer Dean doesn’t answer the door.

He  _is_ early, though. Maybe Dean thought he had time to step out for something? Or perhaps he’s simply in the bathroom, and Cas is being horribly rude right now,  unintentionally pressuring Dean to cut his business short.

He waits another minute, then can’t help himself. He rings again.

This time, to his relief, he hears footsteps — moving very quickly, by the sound of it.

The door swings open.

“Cas!” Dean exclaims, out of breath and cheeks flushed, and Cas is momentarily struck dumb by the sight.

Except Dean looks . . . a little guilty, almost.

“I . . . am I — did I interrupt something?”

“What? No.” Dean runs a hand through his hair, then freezes, eyes going wide. “No! No, you didn’t — no.”

Somewhere from within the house,  _Heat of the Moment_ sounds, overlaid by the Harry Potter theme music.

“Oh, my God,” Dean mutters, head dropping. “Sorry, Cas. To be honest — Sam’s been hassling me.”

“Sorry to hear that. Uh, if you need to answer, though, I don’t mind—"

“I’m good, thanks,” Dean says quickly, then grabs his arm to pull him inside. Cas goes easily; certainly, he’s not going to complain.

“Okay, so, sofa there, snacks on the coffee table, drinks in the kitchen. What’s your poison?”

He follows Dean past the living area and the dividing wall, into the kitchen, glancing around curiously. The house looks much different than it used to; everything in the main room is painted a light grey, simple white curtains on the windows and prints in  blue and white on the walls. The  fraying moss carpet and yellow ed linoleum is gone,  replaced by some kind of dark w ood flooring throughout. All in all, it looks a hundred times brighter and newer than last time.

Except for the kitchen. Cas stops short when he gets there.

It’s . . .

“I didn’t decorate it,” Dean says quickly, preempting him.

“It’s fine if you did—"

“Well, I didn’t.”

“Alright.”

The walls in here are a bright sky blue, sunny yellow daffodil paintings hanging in all the empty spaces, and cabinets all painted white. Over the two windows, ruffled white curtains with yellow polka dots are gathered. The same warm wood flooring extends through here, and a little white kitchen table with matching chairs stands off to the side, bright yellow cushions tied neatly to the backs.

Cas can’t help himself. He loves it.

“It’s perfect,” he mumbles, and Dean’s step falters as he approaches the fridge.

“Sorry?”

“I just — I like it, a lot.”

Dean eyes him, suspicious, then abruptly turns away.

“Alright. To each their own.”

Despite his words, Can thinks he sounds happy.

He’s pretty sure Dean loves it, too.

Anyway, once they’ve settled themselves on the sofa, beers in hand, Dean starts the movie, and they sit in comfortable silence, about a foot apart, as it progresses.

For about twenty minutes, that is.

See, it’s not that _The Sorceror’s Stone_ is a bad film; on the contrary, Cas found it just as enjoyable three years ago as he did at eighteen. And it’s not that he’s seen it too recently, either. Nor is it even that he’s preoccupied with all the residual stress of daily life.

No, twenty minutes in, Cas is struggling to pay attention to anything on the screen, and it is totally, one-hundred-percent, all Dean’s fault.

This is not the same sofa the three of them used to share, years ago. The room, for all intents and purposes, is completely different. And certainly, there is no Sam sitting on the other side of Dean, quickly interjecting little comments and trivia during lulls in dialogue.

In light of that, nothing about the situation should be triggering memories of all the evenings they did this before, at least not to the point he can’t just brush them aside, and  _yet._

Of course, given Sam’s absence, it’s really more like the one time they were on this sofa  _alone_ —

Cas shakes himself, stealing a glance at Dean, a mere foot away from him (though really, he’s kind of surprised Dean didn’t just settle in right next to him, like he did at the diner) and is startled to find him looking back.

Dean quickly turns his head, cheeks unmistakably red, and then—

He shifts further away.

It’s just a stupid part of the game,  Cas is sure, but it leaves  him feeling strangely bereft,  anyway.

Thirty minutes after that, he’s mostly managed to refocus on the movie, thoughts of times long past faded into the background, but when Dean laughs, Cas reflexively looks over.

Only to find that Dean is now almost  _twice_ as far away as he was before.

Very well, he decides, turning back to the screen and trying not to frown. If Dean wants to sit on the other end of the sofa, coincidentally as far away from Cas as possible, for no apparent reason, that’s his business. Cas doesn’t care, and he’s certainly not going to say anything.

“Does my cologne offend you or something?”

Dean immediately turns to stare at him, movie forgotten, and Cas stares back, face hot.

“You put on cologne just to come to my house?”  Dean asks, blinking, and Cas tries and fails to will  the floor beneath the sofa to open up and swallow him.

“Habit,” he grits out, and Dean smirks. Cas  _hates_ that smirk. He’d wipe it from Dean’s face, if he could. 

(Preferably with his own mouth, which, now that he thinks of it, might be part of why he hates it so much.)

“Right. Well, I actually can’t smell it.”

“Because you’re on the other side of the sofa.”

What? He might as well, now that he’s already embarrassed himself this much.

Dean’s humor morphs into suspicion.

“Some reason you wanted to sit right next to me, Cas?”

Normally, Cas would assume Dean was teasing him again, but the way he says it is strangely flat — almost  _accusatory_ . But what could he be accusing Cas  _of?_ Cas is the prey here, waiting on Dean to execute his carefully laid out traps.

Unless — unless that’s all in his head? Is it — could it be possible that Dean is really just trying to be his friend? Until Cas brought up his past feelings, that is, and then forced Dean to loan him his jacket, and oh, God, what if Cas has just been being crazy this entire time and poor Dean sincerely just wants to be his friend?

What if he’s afraid _Cas_ is going to try and put the moves on him?

This — this is a nightmare. It has to be. There’s no other explanation for it.

“No. No it — it doesn’t matter. I just — I worried I—" he swallows, throat dry. He feels vaguely nauseated, all of the sudden. “May I use your restroom?”

Dean looks at him, suddenly less suspicious and more confused.

“Uh. Yeah. First door in the hall.”

“ Thank you.” Cas quickly gets to his feet, circling around the sofa and making a beeline for the bathroom.

“Do you want me to pause it?” Dean calls after him.

“No!” Cas yells back, and firmly shuts the door behind him.

Dean pauses the movie, anyway, both out of consideration for Cas and to give himself a much-needed chance to regroup.

Okay. That was — weird. Like, call him crazy, but Dean is pretty sure Cas is straight-up  _hiding_ in his bathroom right now. Because he’s embarrassed. Which is — Dean doesn’t even know what to do with that.

If you’d asked a few mo n ths ago, Dean actually would have said Cas  _couldn’t_ get embarrassed, was in fact the most utterly shameless person on the planet  —  b ut in the last month, Dean’s seen it happen a few times, and he’s still not used to it.

Of course, if he thinks about it, he maybe remembers Cas getting flustered over the  _ABBA_ CD, or his dumbass reason for  not wearing a coat, and while  Dean’s policy on memories of Cas is to question literally  _everything,_ he wonders if he’s wrong to be surprised now.

Because of that, and because it took Cas half the movie to ask about the frankly conspicuous gap Dean was leaving between them, Dean considers that _maybe_ he let his imagination get away from him a little. Sure, Cas’s craftiness should never be underestimated, but — it’s probably safe to assume that this, tonight, is not some kind of weird, drawn out seduction technique, like Dean thought.

Like, seriously — the dude’s hiding in his bathroom, the one painted spring green, that smells like apples because he trusted Benny and Benny betrayed him. (Honestly, it’s probably doing a lot to calm Cas down, right now.) Dean doesn’t even  _want_ to know how much better Cas’s seduction game has probably gotten, so if that was really his goal, Dean would know.

Instead, Cas sat there, quietly noticing Dean’s nervous, gradual withdrawal, and when he finally said something, Dean swears he sounded  _hurt._ Like he had after Dean ignored him at  K ickoff. 

Like . . . like he’s in the bathroom right now because _he’s_ more afraid of Dean than Dean is of him.

Like Dean’s plan  _is working._

It’s as if the whole room suddenly brightens, somehow, illuminated by the promise of victory, and it’s all Dean can do not to grin like a supervillain, lest Cas come out of the bathroom only to head right back in and hide some more. But  _shit_ —  this is what he’s been waiting for.  This means  Cas is — however much he might suspect Dean’s motive s —  _invested_ . He fucking  _cares._ He’s finally on the hook, and all Dean has to do is reel him in.

The bathroom door opens, and Dean tilts his head back so he can watch Cas walk back toward the sofa.

“Everything okay?” he asks, hopefully masking his glee. Cas tenses, looking frazzled and skittish and  _fuck,_ Dean feels a hundred feet tall right now.

“Yes,” he says, steps slowing as he nears Dean. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for you to wait.”

“Nah, I don’t mind. I know you were looking forward to this.”

Cas stops next to him, squinting down suspiciously, and yeah, maybe  Dean’s not hiding his delight that well, after all. But . . .

It’s just — it’s  _Cas._ Cas, with his stupid blue eyes, peering down at him while the lamplight casts a halo around that ridiculous hair, which looks a little damp at the front and sides, like he just splashed water on his face. Cas, the guy that fucking came into Dean’s life and  _played_ him,  eleven years ago, a wound that gives him trouble to this day.

And now, Dean might just be about to get everything he’s spent the last decade wanting from him.

(Revenge, of course.)

It’s all of this, the sheer magnitude of possibility, that probably causes him to do what he does next.

Without a thought, Dean reaches out and wraps a hand around the bottom of Cas’s tie.

Cas freezes, eyes going wide.

Dean tugs.

Stumbling, Cas’s surprised face comes to a stop about half a foot above Dean before he braces himself on the sofa back, hands clutching it on either side of Dean’s face.

“Hey,” Dean says,  and  Cas blinks, a slow thing,  before his lips part.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean has no idea what he’s doing right now, but he’s in no hurry to stop.

He releases the tie, only to grasp it just below the knot and pull.

This time, Cas doesn’t resist — just sucks in a breath and lets himself fall.

Dean tilts his head to avoid a collision, but from there,  he turns back to drag his nose lightly along Cas’s  throat , breathing deeply.

“ Not offensive at all, Cas,” he murmurs. “So you know.”

It’s not a lie, either, although Dean’s brain isn’t functioning as well he generally likes it to, at the moment. Cas has on something fresh and earthy, like the forest after a storm. And beneath that is a different scent, one that’s just  _Cas,_ achingly familiar from evenings like this one,  curled up on the sofa, mornings spent wrapped around each other in empty classrooms, and afternoons, pressed close in the front seat of the Lincoln.

And a few times, too, tangled up in the bedroom just down the hall.

It makes Dean feel a little dizzy, the bad, wonderful kind that usually precedes really awful or really awesome decisions.

He gently pushes at Cas’s shoulder. Cas sways back a little, then draws himself up, eyes fixed on Dean ,  just like they always used to be.

“That’s . . . good  to know,” he says finally, blinking down at Dean.

“Yeah.” Dean slowly nods. “I think we have a movie to finish.”

“Of course.”

Cas turns to move around the sofa, and Dean uses the moment to compose himself, because he really isn’t.

Slightly more clear-headed, he pats the sofa beside him, looking at Cas expectantly, and after a long pause, Cas sits.

Then abruptly, he straightens.

“I thought you didn’t want to sit next to me,” he says, a challenge in his tone, and Dean has to bite back a grin.

“I didn’t.”

Cas’s lips press together, and he tenses, looking for all the world like he’s actually about to shift away.

“If you feel that way—"

“I mean, I wanted to be able to focus on the movie, after all.”

Cas shuts his mouth.

“Of course,” Dean continues casually. “Then I found out you wore cologne for me, and it seems like a waste not to enjoy it. Since you went to the trouble.”

“I didn’t—" Cas starts, crimson, but Dean just hits play on the remote.

“Shhh, Cas,” he coaxes, scooting closer and casually draping an arm across the back of the sofa. Cas turns slightly, frowning at it. “Just watch the movie.

It’s weird; Dean’s riding a bizarre sort of high, suddenly, almost like when he really likes somebody and finally seals the deal, except about a thousand times better.

He’s pretty sure neither of them pay attention  to the rest of the movie  at all , and when it ends, Cas barely gets out a mumbled ‘thank you’ before he darts out the door like Satan’s on his heels.

Oh, well. Dean’s been called worse.

Cas leaves in a hurry, because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something stupid. And not just a  _little_ stupid. No, the things he’s thinking about doing are insane, everything-will-be-ruined-forever, shoot-yourself-in-the-foot levels of stupid.

So Cas ignores all the appropriate courtesies and refuses to so much as look Dean in the eye before he basically runs out the door the second the movie’s over. He has to, because if he  _doesn’t,_ he will instead drag Dean to the bedroom he is painfully aware of existing just down the hall so they can (barring objections) have their wicked way with each other.

Which won’t do  _at all._

The whole rest of the movie after the — the  _cologne_ debacle, Cas was  _thisclose_ to saying ‘fuck it’ and just jumping him. Cas’s libido has been pathetically out of commission for longer than he cares to think about, but even if he’d just gotten laid last night, he defies anyone to have Dean Winchester tugging on their fucking tie so he can take a drag off their cologne and  _not_ feel a desperate impulse to sacrifice every scrap of pride they have on the heady altar of lust.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t, because he’s pretty sure that’s exactly what Dean was after tonight, and while giving  Dean whatever he wants may have  _sounded_ good to  Cas’s overactive hindbrain, it would in actuality be a horrible mistake, and he’s grateful — really, he is — that he had just enough self-control not to actually do it.

Because sleeping with Dean is a terrible idea.  Or rather , it’s a n absolutely delightful idea, one he’s going to have to actively avoid exploring later, but it would be terrible to go ahead and do it. This — this is what Dean’s been  aiming for all along; to tease Cas with the false promise of an emotional connection he never quite finished mourning and drive him so crazy with want he abandons sense and allows it all to blind him to the inevitable, devastating conclusion of th e path  Dean’s set him on.

Cas isn’t even sure which thought upsets him more; that Dean would stick around, using him, making sure he was well and truly — _attached_ , only to then cut him loose — or that, if they slept together, Dean would just laugh about it afterwards and leave, never to be seen again.

Which certainly makes one thing clear:

Cas is already screwed.

Anyway, Claire asks him, with an actual ‘please,’ to let her stay and watch _Stranger Things_ since it’s Saturday and she already did her homework; he says ‘yes,’ because unless it’s unreasonable in some way, he generally says ‘yes’ to her if she asks for something, and he supposes he should be grateful she doesn’t use it against him more often.

In the end, he falls asleep before eleven, and wakes the next morning with a vague memory of his older sister tucking him in.

Cas slips out of the bed, careful not to wake Valencia, whom he suspects was up much later than himself, and heads downstairs. He smells coffee as he approaches, which means Anna’s already up, probably summoned to the realm of the living by some work obligation or other.

She waves when he walks in, mug in hand, not bothering to look up from her laptop.

He waves back, even though she can’t see him, and pours himself a cup.

They sit in companionable silence, the room bright with the morning sun, Cas sipping at his coffee and Anna occasionally abusing her keyboard with her free hand.

Eventually, she looks up.

“Morning. How are you?”

“Still only half-awake.”

“Please, like  you didn’t just crash for ten hours. Do you sleep that poorly at home?”

“No,” he lies. “I was just tired.”

“Right. Well, the rest of us were up until four—"

“But Claire—"

“So they’re going to need to be left alone for a bit. Sorry. I would say I tried, but I got caught up and really didn’t.”

He looks at her, baleful.

“What if she can’t sleep tonight?”

Anna sighs and squints at the clock.

“I’ll wake her up in another hour when I go for my nap. Six hours is enough for relaxing on a Sunday, but it’ll leave her tired.”

“If you say so.”

She smiles, sunny despite the bags under her eyes.

“I do. So how was your date?”

It’s his turn to sigh.

“Fine.”

“Wow. You’re not even denying it anymore.”

“I’m not sure what it is anymore, so no, I’m not.”

“Huh. I saw that guy, and if you were  _really_ my brother, you’d make sure it was a date.”

“And if I’d just met Dean, I would. But it’s — complicated.”

“Then uncomplicate it?” she counters, unimpressed. “So you have some kind of mysterious history.  _Yet,_ you keep seeing him. Ergo, you think he’s worth it.”

He just stops himself from laughing.  _Dean_ might be  worth it ; the problem is  _Cas_ .

But he can’t tell her that.

“We’ll see,” he mumbles.

“Uh-huh.” She switches tactics. “Claire says you guys were staying in.”

“Yes. We watched the first Harry Potter.”

Anna screws up her face.

“You were alone in a house with a guy who looks like that and you—" she stops at the look he gives her, rolling her eyes. “Fine. Anyway, she seemed okay last night. A little quiet, at first, but okay. I think she’s adjusting.”

He sighs.

“I hope so.”

Anna’s Skype rings then, and she groans. “Ugh, I have to take this. Go wash your face.”

“Fine, mom, but after that, I’m going to the store for groceries. Don’t forget to wake Claire.”

“Of course not. Drive safe.”

She waves him off and answers her call.

Thirty minutes later, Cas is pushing an empty cart down the chips aisle and trying to decide, as he must every week, whether or not it’s okay to bribe a child with snacks of dubious nutrition.

He’s just picked up and put back a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos when he hears another cart approach, and he reaches out to pull his own from the path.

“Cas?”

Oh, you have got to be fucking _kidding_ him.

He looks up, meeting surprised green eyes. There’s a pleased smile working its way across Dean’s face, and even with faint stubble, mussed hair, and ghastly florescent grocery store lighting, Cas is no less tempted to do things that will get them thrown out of the store.

“Hello, Dean.”

He tries not to sigh. How do these things happen to him?

(Actually, he doesn’t want an answer to that.)

“Fancy meetin’ you here,” Dean drawls, blatantly looking him over. Cas glances down reflexively, only to be reminded that he’s still in last night’s clothes. You know, because it can  _always_ get worse.

When he looks back up, Dean is frowning.

“What, were your pajamas at the cleaners, too?”

It would be nice if the mildly hostile tone in which Dean says this did anything to lessen the struggle, but it doesn’t. Dean can play hot and cold all he wants; Cas is probably not going anywhere.

“No, but they were at home. I fell asleep watching Netflix at my sister’s.”

Dean’s expression lifts, only to shift into a pout.

“You should’ve told me you had time for more. We could have watched _Chamber of Secrets_.”

“Perhaps, but you probably wouldn’t have wanted me sleeping in your guest room.”

Dean smiles, unabashed and wicked.

“In my  _guest room_ ? You’re right, I wouldn’t.”

The implication is not lost on Cas.

Is it just his imagination, he thinks, staring, or has Dean escalated in the past twenty-four hours? By a _lot_?

“Come on, we can shop together,” Dean says, and starts pushing his cart down the aisle.

Cas silently follows, because at this point — what else is he going to do?

Fifteen minutes later, all Cas has in his cart is a box of pasta and some frozen broccoli, despite his ‘aimless  wandering ,’ as Dean’s decided to call it, and he watches as Dean consults a meticulous, recipe-based list for the next item.

Cas can’t quite hold back a sigh.

“ Ah, how I missed you when I went to college,”  he muses, not even thinking. “I could barely make myself ramen.”

Besides him, Dean stills.

And Cas — Cas can’t even blame luck for this one.

“What?”

“I — you’re still interested in cooking. That’s nice,” Cas says quickly, and tries to move forward.

Dean grabs his arm, stopping him.

“Cas. What does that mean?”

He hesitates, but Dean doesn’t let go, eyes intent and searching.

“I just. I — ” How to explain it? He doesn’t know, and even if he thought he could convey that year in full, painful detail, the grocery store isn’t the place for it. “It means I — missed you. Particularly when  confronted with my limited culinary  talent .”

Dean’s grip loosens, but his gaze holds Cas’s.

He looks confused.

“I thought — I mean. I figured, after  everything, you just — I don’t know. Moved on and forgot about me.” He swallows. “Didn’t you?”

“No.” Cas tugs his arm free and pushes past him so he doesn’t have to see Dean’s face as he looks for the lie.

He’s worried Dean won’t let it go, but then Dean’s walking with him once more, stopping at the end of the aisle to pick up canned beans, and Cas is somehow less grateful than he should be.

“So,” Dean says, once he’s done. “Not judging your shopping habits, but I’m guessing you’re still a bad cook.”

He’s not wrong, but a lot of Cas’s trouble this trip is _Dean’s_ fault. He’s distracting _,_ in more ways than one.

“I  _can_ cook, I just — it’s hard cooking for a—" he stops, then hastily correct s himself. “For an individual.”

Dean doesn’t seem to notice, though, and holds up his list with a grin.

“Hard, but not impossible.”

“For you, maybe,” Cas grumbles, but he’s relieved. Normally, he would consider ‘I’m responsible for my thirteen-year-old niece’ to be important information before getting serious with someone, but Dean’s just toying with him. It is not and never will be serious, right?

Therefore, he doesn’t need to know.

“Yeah, well. I could teach you?”

Dean, teaching him to cook. Dean, strutting around that wonderful blue kitchen, leaning over Cas’s shoulder  and brushing up against him, patiently explaining the steps and instructing him to taste test things, cracking jokes all the while.

It sounds not unlike a form of paradise, and Cas must never allow it to happen.

“I’ll struggle through,” he tells him. “But thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” Dean shrugs. “But you’re missin’ out.”

_Don’t I know it,_ Cas thinks, watching Dean bend over a standing refrigerator  to inspect the steaks, and then forces himself to turn away.

Cas does eventually get most of what he came for, and Dean waits for him to finish checking out so they can leave together.

“So,” he starts, as they walk out. “There are seven more movies.”

“That’s a lot.” Cas isn’t sure if he can handle seven more nights like the last one. Probably not. He’ll probably throw himself at Dean before Cedric Diggory is cold on the ground.

“Hey, it’s not like we’re gonna do ‘em all at once.”

“ I also reserve the right to quit if they get as bad as the books.”

“Gonna pretend I didn’t hear that. Anyway, I know you at least like the first four. Same time next Saturday?”

He should say no. He should at least postpone it to the next week, to give himself time to recover.

But Dean is looking at him, and he’s smiling in this way that says he _knows_ the answer will be yes, and somehow it reminds Cas of the very first day of summer. Like there’s nothing more to worry about, and it’s time to just let go.

“Alright. I’ll be there.”

He worries, still, just what it is he’s letting go.


	16. Part II: you think you understand me, but I don't even understand me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Claire’s difficulties adjusting result in Dean having to make some decisions about how to handle it (details in the notes; I have no idea how to tag for some of this, I apologize), Dean acknowledging that reading teenage poetry can take its toll (this isn’t meant to belittle the feelings of adolescents, however; even when something is a phase, that doesn’t mean it’s not still an important part of growing up and figuring things out, and this joke is not meant unkindly, though I apologize if it comes off that way. This author has some bad poetry of their own behind them - and in front of them, probably - and they mock it with affection), Claire suggesting Dean try a prince if he has bad luck with princesses; this is because she has a specific prince in mind, and is not at all meant to suggest that his relationships aren't working out because they're with women or that they'll work better with men, Cas experiencing some anxiety over Claire’s relationship with her teacher (you as the reader know there is nothing to worry about, but it may be disconcerting to read his POV since he doesn’t, so please be prepared; additional details in the notes on that), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> note: Claire and Dean talk about bad taste in men, referencing _the princess saves herself in this one_ , but it’s a pretty simple conversation and it’s not really meant to comment on/explain that author’s situation (or fully address all the reasons people get into unhealthy relationships with other people of any gender), so I apologize if it comes off that way or seems like it overlooks important things; additionally, he references a failure to second-guess someone who might be treating you badly, but to be clear, while doing so can be another layer of protection in the less-than-ideal world we have to live in, at the end of the day, if someone treats you badly, that is entirely on them, not you.
> 
> I am hoping to get the next one out after work tonight, or in the morning, not that there's any particular reason why I think you'd want the next one right away, I just want to keep you apprised of the schedule since I have a better idea of it this time. Thank you so much for reading, and for all your wonderful feedback! ❤ I hope you're all well, and please enjoy!

> _Why can’t you see?_
> 
> _Time won’t heal it, just stand still for me_
> 
> _And I’m feeling lonely_
> 
> _I’m feeling blue_
> 
> _Won’t you please give me something?_
> 
> _I don’t believe in your sweet nothing . . ._
> 
> _\- Sweet Nothing, Gabrielle Aplin_

This semester, Dean doesn’t have a class after his lunch break, which leaves him plenty of time to eat and grade papers. Occasionally, he’ll have a student drop in to talk about this or that, but for the most part, the hour-and-a-half passes uninterrupted, and if he could swing this schedule every year, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

For today, however, he has a visitor.

“Come on in, Claire,” he calls, when he notices her hovering at the door. “I mean, I’ll talk to you from here, if you want, but it’ll probably be easier for you.”

She straightens, rolling her eyes, and saunters forward with a practiced casualness that gives him a bizarre sense of _deja_ _vu_. He’s still wracking his brain, trying to place it, when she reaches him.

“Hey, Mr. W. I’m just bringing Dickinson back.”

“Sweet, thanks, Justin.”

She gives him a weird look, and he sighs.

“Never mind. Thank you, Claire.”

“Right.”

“How’d you like it?”

“Uh. They were pretty good.” She tucks her hands in her pockets, shrugging. “ _Way_ different from Lovelace.”

“Yeah. That’s the cool thing about poetry. ‘S’all different.”

She nods, fidgeting a little, then points to the book she just set down.

“She uses a lot of dashes.”

“Sure does. One of her trademarks.”

Claire half-smiles, then looks down and goes quiet.

“So — did you have any favorites?” he asks. He figures since she came in during lunch, she probably wants to chat, and he always likes to ask his kids the favorites question. Oftentimes, they don’t think about it until he does; realizing you do have a favorite and trying to pin down why can teach you a lot about yourself, especially at this age.

She shrugs, hesitating a long moment. He’s about to point out that she doesn’t have to tell him, when she speaks.

“’Why Do They Shut Me Out of Heaven.’”

He nods slowly, trying to recall it in more detail.

“Yeah? Why’s that? You don’t have to say, if you don’t want,” he adds.

Claire chews at her lip, clearly thinking hard. He’s not sure if she doesn’t have an answer, or if she’s just reluctant to share it.

He waits, patient.  Claire and her classmates are at that age where they’re still figuring out how to articulate their thoughts and feelings, even to themselves, and you should never try and rush them.

“It’s about — she doesn’t understand why she’s not good enough, right? She doesn’t — she doesn’t know what she did wrong, but she’s desperate to try and be better, so she won’t — she doesn’t want to be left out. Left alone.” She speaks quickly, eyes darting between his and the desk.

“Yeah.” He pauses, waiting for her to continue.

“I don’t know,” she mumbles. “Everyone probably feels that way sometimes, or whatever.  Frustrated, or — or scared. ‘Cause they know there’s something wrong with them.”

Dean lets that sink in for a moment, and yeah, okay, that’s . . . a little worrisome. It’s not necessarily a _surprise_ — it doesn’t take a genius to see there’s some stuff going on with Claire — but he does think he’s starting to get a clearer picture.

Obviously, his first instinct is to reassure her there’s absolutely nothing wrong with her (she’s thirteen, for chrissakes, and while she could be a vicious psychopath, he’s gonna go with his instincts on this one), but somehow, he doesn’t think Claire will appreciate him making this about her, specifically. _He_ sure as hell wouldn’t have, at her age.

“Sure, everybody’s got flaws,” he says carefully. “But you know, that’s normal. Wouldn’t necessarily say there’s something  _wrong_ with them.”

“But sometimes there is,” she protests. “Isn’t that why people are scared? That — that it’s not just flaws. That there’s something in their nature, that they don’t understand and can’t fix, that makes things go wrong. Because — because people get what they deserve, don’t they?”

“Uh. Well. Not always.” He takes a deep breath. He  _really_ didn’t wake up and get ready for work thinking he would be having this conversation. “Sometimes — sometimes bad things just happen, to people who don’t deserve it. And sometimes people really are bad, and they never get what’s coming to them. And sometimes, even if there  _is_ something wrong with you — you can still change, and be better. And then . . . maybe you can start making good things happen.”

She looks doubtful.

“ Yeah, well. Even if that’s true, you have to figure out what’s wrong before you can fix it.”

“Sure. But you’ve got time.”

Claire stiffens, folding her arms.

“I wasn’t talking about me,” she snaps, and Dean internally kicks himself for the slip.

“’Course not. I meant, you know. The general people ‘you.’ Like, uh, as long as someone’s alive, they’ve got time.”

The look Claire gives him then is excellent proof that thirteen is _definitely_ old enough to know when someone’s bullshitting you.

“Right, so, uh,” he starts, figuring she’s probably feeling a little too exposed to talk about it anymore. “How ‘bout Lovelace?”

Claire relaxes slightly, though she still looks wary.

“Um. Well. She was a little easier to follow, to be honest.”

“Yeah. Sometimes it can be harder to connect with stuff that uses language in a way you’re not used to.”

She nods.

“Yeah. Lovelace felt — I don’t know. More like how people think, you know? Like, it was written less like, a piece of writing, and more like thoughts. Except more poetic, or whatever,” she adds,  then pulls a face.

“No, no, that’s a good way to describe it,” he tells her, smiling, and she sort of nods in acknowledgment, although he can tell she’s still not happy with how she said that.

“I, um, I liked how it was sorted into chapters, too? Like, by theme?”

“Yeah, Dickinson’s were just put in chronological order. Do you feel like that added a lot to the poems, or just made it easier to read?”

“It added a lot,” Claire replies quickly. “Because — it made it almost like a novel, right? ‘Cause a lot of the poems could stand alone, but it was also telling one big story. And there was . . . a flow, I guess? To all the parts.”

Honestly, it’s a struggle to conceal his enthusiasm,  though he does his best . This is kind of one of those moments where, as a teacher, he can’t imagine doing anything else.

“Absolutely. Great insight, Claire. What did you think about the, uh, the title metaphor?” She tilts her head, considering, then shifts again, and he realizes she’s just been standing in front of the desk the whole time. “Shoot, why don’t you grab a chair? Actually, wait — where are you supposed to be right now?”

“Lunch. I’m not hungry though.” She shuffles to the nearest desk and drags the chair over, but before he can ask, she starts talking again. “I thought it was a cool way to do it, you know, to connect everything and talk about stuff.”

He nods.

“Yeah? Anything jump out at you, or that you wanna talk more about?”

Claire looks down.

“Um. Not really.” She picks at her jeans,  quiet for a moment, then  clear s her throat. “ Anyway, h e r  ex  really sounded like a jerk. Like, why do women even date these guys in the first place?”

Dean  huffs a laugh.

“Look, it’s — when you’re young, and you maybe don’t think a lot of yourself, if somebody’s giving you the time of day . . . you kinda think maybe you should just run with it. You, uh, you get too fixated on second-guessing yourself to second-guess _them,_ like you should.” And then, not thinking, he jokes, “And besides — women aren’t the only ones with lousy taste in men.”

Claire’s head snaps up.

Which — shit. He’s never lied to his students about his sexuality, but he sure as hell doesn’t want to _advertise_ it to any of them. A few safe-space posters and he calls it good.

“You got dragon problems, Mr. W?” she asks, visibly curious, and he relaxes. Yeah, Claire’s a good egg.

“Not for years now,” he admits. “But honestly, I don’t have much better luck with Princesses.”

She gives him a thoughtful look.

“Maybe you should try a prince.”

“Yeah, well, let me know if you find one,”  he quips, chuckling, and Claire ducks her head, trying to hide a smile.

And yeah, there’s amusement there, at the joke, but there’s also something else that Dean can’t quite interpret,  something almost . . . calculating.

Oh, well. It’s probably nothing.

“Besides,” he continues. “I, uh, I think I’ve been a bit of a dragon myself, sometimes.”

She lifts her head, humor dissipating.

“You don’t seem like a dragon.” She pauses. “More like a cool princess.”

Dean reminds himself that this is a metaphor, and that’s — probably — a compliment.

“Not even,” he returns solemnly, and on a whim, grabs his phone. “More like a lowly handmaiden.”

“What?”

He unlocks it, tapping away until he finds what he’s looking for, and holds it up, letting her see the picture from the last Moondoor campaign.

“Redhead there is our queen, Charlie. I’ve been her trusted handmaiden more than ten years.”

Claire’s brows are halfway up her forehead, but the beginnings of a smile are on her face.

“That’s so cool,” she says under her breath, and reaches for the phone. “So, like — you guys just dress up and play around?”

To be honest, if Dean taught high school, he’d be a little more concerned about showing students his LARP photos, but thirteen-year-olds are usually more taken with the idea than derisive of it.

Anyway, he lets her flip through the Moondoor album, and though he can’t think of anything that would scar her, warns her off wandering elsewhere.

She sneers at that.

“I’m not a complete jerk.”

Dean shakes his head.

“You’re not a jerk at all, Claire.” He’s pretty sure he’s right about that; she may be prickly and sarcastic, but he doubts she has much stomach for meanness.

“Whatever.”

By the time she’s done looking and he’s told her a little about LARPing and the tale of Moondoor, lunch is just about over.  Claire puts the chair back with obvious reluctance, slinging her backpack over her shoulder when she’s done, and then pauses at his desk, awkwardly clutching at the strap.

“So. This was — better than the library. Thanks.”

He frowns.

“You spend lunch in the library?”

She shrugs, not meeting his eye.

“Last time, at lunch, this girl picked a fight with me.”

Dean raises his brows, silently prompting her to elaborate, and she lets out a huff.

“ She dumped her slushie all over my jacket and I punched her and got in trouble.”  Claire rolls her eyes. “It was stupid, but my un — my dad, he said  I should avoid fighting, since you get in trouble whether it’s your fault or not. But she’s still mad at me, and I don’t like anybody, anyway, so it’s better to just go somewhere else.”

Yikes. That’s . . . a big fucking problem.

“Alright. Well, don’t hate me for saying this, but — did you try talking to her?”

She glares.

“ _No._ There’s no point.”

“Okay,” he says, quickly backing off. “I believe you.”

“And anyway, I don’t even want to go back to the lunch room. It’s loud and annoying.”

“That’s true.”

She glances up for a moment, then away, then straightens her shoulders and looks him dead in the eye.

“Can I eat in here?”

And yeah, he probably should have figured out where this was headed sooner.

“Uh.  Well  — I don’t know, Claire, you probably . . .” He trails off. Realistically, Claire  _should_ be eating in the lunchroom, but she’s not  _going_ to, and he doesn’t blame her. Which leaves the library, or here.

On the one hand, Dean doesn’t feel like that’s a great solution to the problem. She should be making friends her own age, and while he does have students visit during his off hours, having the same student spend lunch in here every day seems kind of weird. The door is open and there’s plenty of hall traffic, and he knows his coworkers aren’t going to think there’s anything inappropriate happening, but _. . ._

While Dean is happy to be a friend to his kids when they need it, it’s still not great for them if he’s their  _only_ friend.

“I’ll be quiet,” she says suddenly. “Like, I don’t expect you to talk to me every day. But it’s sunny in here and the library creeps me out.”

That’s fair. The library _is_ pretty fucking creepy.

More importantly, though, Claire is clearly having a hard time, and while in a perfect world, she’d have other friends, it’s not and she doesn’t. And a s much as he thinks it’s bad for her to hide in his classroom every day instead of making them, it’s also bad for her to come to school and go the  entire day without speaking to anyone at all, let alone a friendly face,  and it sounds like that’s what’s probably happening.

He suppresses a sigh.

“Alright.” She brightens. “ _But —_ the next time we do a group project, I wanna see you actually talk to your group. Not all the kids are jerks. You might make some friends.”

She squints.

“You totally just said some of your students are jerks.”

Dean shrugs.

“Look, we’re all people here. Anyway, you won’t tell on me. Probably.”

She smiles, small and sly, blue eyes twinkling in a way that he feels like he should recognize.

“Okay, deal. I get to eat lunch in here in exchange for my silence.”

“Hey, wait, that’s not what—"

“Anyway, I have class — see you later, Mr. W!”

And she nimbly scoots out the door.

Dean puts his head against the desk once she’s gone, and hopes this doesn’t somehow come back to bite him.

Cas is going insane, pretty much, and is just about ready to revise his stance on the whole ‘sleeping with Dean’ issue by the end of the third movie.

The chase through the woods, the escape on the Hippogriff — it’s all very exciting. Cas would probably be absolutely riveted by it, were it not for the fact that  _Dean_ apparently finds it so exciting he can’t help but lean forward, bracing himself on Cas’s leg.

Indeed, Cas is trying and failing to enjoy the spectacular conclusion to what is probably the best film in the series because Dean’s fucking hand is clamped halfway up Cas’s thigh, palm warm through the denim and fingers splayed for maximum coverage because Cas has, at last, died and gone to  _hell._

He sneaks a glance to the side, painfully aware of Dean’s little finger pressing into the muscle of his inner thigh, about five inches away from a potentially humiliating  _situation,_ but Dean’s eyes are glued to the screen, captivated, like he has no idea what he’s doing.

But he  _must._ There’s no fucking way he’s not aware. Cas recalls, with painful clarity, the sneaky, clever ways Dean tried to move things along back in high school. Such deviousness has probably only worsened with time, so however into the movie he may  _seem,_ right now, he has to know exactly where his hand is and how much of a meltdown its presence there is causing Cas to have.

Cas shifts, ever so slightly, and hopes Dean will take pity on him, either way.

Instead, the hand briefly tightens — oh, _God —_ and Dean glances over, looking so genuinely surprised Cas almost believes it.

“You okay?” he asks.

And then he fucking  _leans back,_ so they’re eye-to-eye, dragging his hand up with the movement so it’s right next to-

“I have to use the bathroom,” Cas declares unevenly, and practically throws himself into the coffee table in his haste to get up.

“Okay,” Dean calls after him, unbearably cheerful. “I’ll pause it.”

And Cas, as seems to happen at least once every time he comes here, sprints to the calming, apple‐green haven to hide.

When he comes back, Dean has an arm around the back of the sofa, and he shoots Cas a relaxed, friendly smile, like he wasn’t deliberately groping him five minutes ago.

Of course, there’s nothing to do but weakly return it as he takes his seat, and Dean hits play.

For the next five minutes, Dean’s so well-behaved Cas might think he’d imagined the earlier violation, but last week taught him to be prepared.

And thus, when Cas feels the lightest touch of fingers toying with the hair at the base of his neck, he’s barely even surprised.

He looks at Dean, despairing, but this time Dean’s looking back, and he smiles when he meets Cas’s eyes.

“You need a haircut,” he chides softly, eyes twinkling, like that’s any kind of fucking excuse.

Cas doesn’t even try and find an answer. He’s too busy wondering if this is it, if this is where Dean kisses him and Cas has to decide exactly how much he’s willing to damn himself for this man. If that’s better or worse than once again leaving with nothing save the knowledge that Dean hates him.

He braces himself, waiting for Dean to close the distance. Cas isn’t going to, doesn’t think he can, and he’s afraid of the outcome, either way.

But Dean doesn’t. Instead,  his hand gently slides away from Cas’s neck, back to the sofa, and as it  goes , his smile seems to widen.

And then he turns back to the screen.

As for Cas — he tries not to be disappointed. He really does.

But it doesn’t change the fact that the inches between them suddenly feel like a mile, and it’s a mile  he deeply resents.

Dean sees him out after the movie, hovering close as Cas puts on his coat and determinedly avoids looking at him, lest his eyes somehow ask for things he can barely stop his mouth from demanding.

“So,” Dean says, and Cas forces himself to calmly look up. “I’ll see you next Friday?”

“Friday?”

“Hex-trava-bone-za is Saturday.”

“Oh.” He’ll have to work something out with Claire, but — he doesn’t want to miss a week, though he probably should, if only for the sake of his sanity. “Yes. But I can’t promise I’ll last all of Five the week after that.”

In more ways than one.

Dean smirks, like he knows.

“Well, then I guess we’ll just have to find something else to do, huh?”

Cas stares, and he wonders if the longing is somehow showing on his face, because Dean’s smirk slips and he takes a breath, moving forward a fraction of an inch.

But then he presses his lips together and nods, offering a strange sort of half-smile instead.

“Right. Uh, ‘night then, I guess. See you next week.”

“Good night, Dean.”

They stand there, for another moment; once Cas has started looking, it’s always difficult to tear his eyes away, but he makes himself. And it’s _hard_ to leave. It shouldn’t be so hard, but if anything, it gets harder every time. Cas wants to stay, wants to clear off the coffee table and take the dishes and detritus back to that perfect kitchen, wants to put everything away because he knows where it goes, because _he_ has a place there, too.

Cas doesn’t even care (mostly) if Dean kisses him. Every time they stand here, saying good night, Cas feels like he’s waiting for a hug that’s never going to happen again.

He turns and heads for his car, and as he leaves, he tries not to think about the fact that Dean just stands at the door, watching until he’s gone.

Dean always has trouble focusing on his work after the weekend, lately, but who the hell can blame him?

He’s getting to Cas. He knows it (it’s kind of obvious in the way Cas likes to duck and cover in the powder bath every time Dean does something particularly shameless) and Cas knows it, and everything’s pretty much going perfectly to plan

Except — except, well, it’s kind of getting to Dean, too.

Which, okay, he should have anticipated that — and he  _sort_ of did. Cas just has that effect on him, always did, and bone-deep hatred combined with a burning desire for vengeance unfortunately do nothing to mitigate  it .  Nope, as much as he suspects  _Cas_ is suffering, sitting stiffly beside him and throwing fu r tive looks his way, it’s killing Dean not to just shut off the movie and find out what all he was missing out on last time they fake-dated. And tha t’s frustrating as hell, because when  _Cas_ was the one jerking him around, he didn’t have to deal with this shit — not his conscience or his libido.

Not that Dean feels bad, or anything, because this is all no less than Cas deserves, but every time the guy leaves his house, he just  _stands_ there, looking at Dean like — like he wants something. Maybe even  _needs_ it.

Dean’s only human, and what’s more, he  _is_ who he is; it’s increasingly difficult not to try and give it, even though he knows Cas  doesn’t deserve it.

Anyway, regardless of whether or not Cas wants to keep going after _Goblet of Fire_ , Dean’s pretty sure it’s time to step things up.

Friday night, he’s going to ask Cas on a date.

And sure, they’ve kind of been dating — if any of Dean’s other friends behaved the way Dean has on movie night, a serious talk would be in order — but they’re still in a grey area, and Dean needs to make it clear to Cas what this is, now. And he needs Cas to say yes, because this — this is the point of no return, and he thinks Cas i s finally willing to go right past it, for  _Dean._

This is  _it._ The beginning of the end.

Dean can’t wait.

He’s going to have to, though, because it’s only Tuesday and right now, his eighth-grade English class needs their end-of-unit poems graded.

Which in theory, should be easy, but in  _practice_ . . .

Look , as much as he loves teaching, most of the time, there’s also times it kind of makes  him want to beat  his head against  his desk until  he’s blissfully unconscious, you know?

Dean loves his kids, for the most part, and if he’s being completely honest, he’s even been known to get vaguely misty-eyed over it, on rare occasions here and there. Interacting with them is as rewarding as it is challenging, and he often thinks he learns as much from them as they do from him.

_That being said_ — he does teach _English._ Which means that these young, developing minds are committing their thoughts to paper, and then turning them in. And as much as Dean _does_ love his students and values what they have to say — as awesome as it is to see them figure things out and grow in their writing throughout the year — the fact remains that they’re all kinda working through stuff right now, and sometimes they give him work that Dean can confidently say will make them want to die of embarrassment ten years from now.

Work that, not to be unkind — it’s all part of the growing process, after all — kind of makes _Dean_ want to die a little right now.

He’s just mustered up some legitimate, kind feedback for the fourth poem about inner darkness in the first half of the stack, scrawling it across the top in his favorite non-threatening purple ink, when he reaches Claire’s.

She’s been eating lunch in here for the last  couple weeks, quiet most days, though sometimes she’ll ask questions about classwork or Dean will lightly probe about her other classes and peer interactions. They usually just end up sassing each other, but Dean likes to think she’s slowly opening up, and since it looks like she’s not making any other friends, he figures it’s probably healthier for her to talk to some bitchy old dude than no one at all.

Besides, she reads a lot, splitting her attention between various books from his shelf and the PB&J she brings  _every single day_ (“Shut up, it’s a classic.”) and as an English teacher and lover of fictional worlds, he can’t hate that.

Still, as much as he doesn’t mind the company, it doesn’t change that there’s a problem here. Dean thought it was living in a new place, you know, troubles fitting in and making friends, the usual teenage stuff, not that that  ever made it any less hard on  a kid,  b ut then  — he reads her poem.

_ Small things _

_ Have much in common. _

_ Small things _

_ Are so often soft _

_ (like comforting things are, too.) _

_ And small things _

_ Are often lovely _

_ As if, just by being _

_ Small _

_ A thing becomes _

_ Dear. _

_ Because small things _

_ Are also often _

_ Precious. _

_ But small things _

_ (precious things) _

_ Are also _

_ Easy to lose.  _

_ I wonder _ —

_ Is my love too small? _

_ Is it because I _

_ Am small _

_ That I cannot love enough? _

_ Is that why _

_ I cannot hold on to things? _

_ Is that why _

_ They leave me? _

_ Small things _

_ Also often have _

_ Potential. _

_ The potential _

_ To be more. _

_ And maybe _

_ When I am big _

_ The small things _

_ Will fall into my orbit _

_ And stay. _

_ Maybe _

_ My affection _

_ Will be enough _

_ To bind. _

When he’s done, he reads it again.

The prompt had been to choose something — object, person, place, concept, whatever — and write a poem describing it; what is it like, how does it fit into the world, how does it make you or other people feel, etc. Claire’s is called _Small Things_ , and while Dean was initially torn between wanting to break into _Blink 182_ and curiosity over the vagueness of the topic she’d chosen, now he’s mostly just wondering how worried he should be, and beyond that, what he can or should do about it.

There’d been no rules for structure on this one — it was mostly an opportunity for the kids to write the kind of poem they felt like writing, now that they had an idea of what’s out there. Claire’s has no rhyme scheme or fixed structure, and there’s nothing remarkable in the way it’s put together; he can see the influence of her chosen reading material, certainly.

What sticks out to Dean is the way the words take the rhythm of a thought, like this is one of the things that just nests inside Claire’s skull, English assignments and appreciation for Lovelace’s approach notwithstanding. It doesn’t come off as a dramatized middle-school breakup, platonic or otherwise, and he’s pretty sure she hasn’t made any connections since coming here, anyway.

Nah, it  kind of comes off helpless and lonely and a little bit numb, like quietly trying to make sense of s omething  awful , and  on top of the lunchroom fight and the hiding out in libraries and classrooms and that  _look_ she gets sometimes, just staring into space  —  it leaves Dean questioning at what point he should be interfering properly.

And maybe he doesn’t need to call her parents just yet; it’s not like it was a romanticized ode to suicide (he’s gotten those before), and involving parents can frequently turn a bad situation worse, because you never  _know_ what kind of a situation a kid’s got going on at home. This is pretty subtle, as far as the volatile thirteen-year-old crowd goes, anyway.

But he could talk to her a little, try and get a better handle on things before he does anything that could give her grief.

And with any luck — he’s just overreacting.

“Hey, Claire.”

Claire slows her steps as she makes her way to her usual desk, the one right across from Mr. W’s, because yeah, he always greets her, but today he sounds . . . weird. Sort of like Cas does when he’s about to make awkward conversation or ask her to do something.

Adults are crap at ‘nonchalance,’ for the record.

“Hey, Mr. W,” she returns cautiously. He smiles, but he looks thoughtful, and she’s suddenly worried about what he has to say.

She takes her seat, using her lunch as an excuse not to look at him while she tries to figure out what this could be about.

It can’t be  _that_ bad, she decides. If something really horrible happens, they come get you right away. They send somebody, somebody who keeps their voice soft and leads you away from the teacher and the class so they can sit you down somewhere quiet and inform you that the world has ended.

Mr. W smiled at her, and maybe she’s crazy, but she trusts him enough to believe that if — if something like  _that_ happened, he wouldn’t lie to her, even if it was just with his face.

So, what then?

Oh. Maybe he’s going to tell her she can’t eat in here anymore? She tries hard to be quiet, like she promised, but they  _do_ talk sometimes, and maybe he’s annoyed and tired of having to deal with her.

It’s tough to square her shoulders and meet his eyes when she feels this small, and her knee-jerk reaction is to try and negotiate — she could take a vow of silence, or sit at a desk further back? — but she manages to keep her mouth shut.

“So, I was grading final poems today,” he starts, holding up a piece of paper, and  all of a sudden, she just feels  _embarrassed._

Like, sure, she knew he was going to  _read_ it, obviously, but she didn’t think they’d freaking  _talk_ about it.

“Oh,” she says, not sure where he’s going with this, and still hoping she’ll  think of a way to head him off. “Am I getting an F?”

Honestly, she hopes not. It’s not like her  feelings would be hurt or anything, but she read the directions carefully, and she doesn’t see how it would be fair to give her anything less than a B.

Mr. W looks genuinely surprised, so okay — that’s a good sign.

Probably, anyway.

“What? No, no. Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you panic.”

She shrugs.

“Whatever. It’s not a big deal either way.”

Mr. W just  gives her a look. She actually gets pretty good grades, because she’s used to it, not to mention she has nothing else to do these days, but  _he_ doesn’t know that, so she’s not sure what exactly he’s trying to say with that bitchy, unimpressed face.

“Right, of course not.” He smiles. “No, I liked it, Claire. You did a really good job.”

Huh. Well, that’s pretty nice. She knows it wasn’t great or anything, but it’s cool of him to say so.

Except it’s also really awkward, because it was kind of personal, and she hopes he’s not about to try and talk to her about it.

“Okay. Thanks. I’m gonna eat my sandwich, then—"

“Claire.”

Oh, my  _God._ She’s pretty sure he doesn’t have kids, but he’s blow n right past  T eacher  V oice and straight on to Dad  V oice and she half-expects Cas to pop up from underneath his desk at any moment, ready to join the lecture.

“Yes,” she mumbles, pinching her sandwich so it leaves a print behind. This is gonna suck, she can tell already.

He sighs.

“Stop that. I’m not trying to give you a hard time.”

“Okay, well, if it was  _fine,_ why are we talking about it?”

He narrows his eyes, and she’s about to apologize for being rude, when he suddenly leans back in his chair, thinking. She waits.

“So, when I was a kid,” he starts, and she must make a face, because he laughs. “Yeah, I know. Hear me out.”

“Sorry,” she offers — he  _is_ her favorite teacher — and he nods.

“Thank you, Claire. So, _when I was a kid_ — things weren’t perfect. I mean, I had it better than a lot of kids, but — you know, crap still gets to you. One of the biggest things for me, was this feeling like — like I didn’t have any control. Stuff happened _to_ me, and then I had to deal with it, and I never felt like I even did a good job of that. So I couldn’t _wait_ to be an adult, so I would finally have the power to fix things. So I could finally be more — be enough.”

Claire stays quiet as he talks, ears warm.

Yeah, okay, fine. Maybe Mr. W knows what he’s talking about.

“Were you?” she blurts out, unable to help herself, because — because even though it’s a long way off, and it’ll be too late by then, anyway, she wants to know.

Mr. W smiles, rueful.

“Nah.”

“Oh.” The biggest surprise is that she’s  _not_ surprised.

Just — a little disappointed, maybe.

“But you know  —  i t’s okay.  _I’m_ okay. There’s still a lot I can do, and there’s a lot I have. Things are better. Heck, things are good.” He nods. “You’ll get there. And in the meantime, if you need to talk  —  I’m here.”

She ducks her head, self-conscious.

“What, you’re not gonna foist me off onto the guidance counselor now that you know I have ‘problems’?” She’s had enough of that, thanks.

“Maybe if I thought it’d  _work,_ ” Mr. W says, and her stomach  just  drops. She  _knew_ it, she knew she was pushing it by eating in here, and whether he knows why or not, he can tell she’s messed up and he’s taking pity on her, and he doesn’t  actually  want her around, either-

“Woah — Claire, hey,” he exclaims, and she jerks her head up, eyes wide. “I’m sorry. I was just teasing you. Thought that was what we did.”

She stares. He looks concerned, and maybe a little confused, too, but not — not the things she thought.

“Right. I knew that.”

She didn’t, and she feels like a hypersensitive  _baby,_ but he doesn’t call her on it.

God, how embarrassing.

“So, like, are you  not done with the heart-to-heart, or can I eat my sandwich?” she asks, injecting a little extra sass in an effort to return to some kind of equilibrium.  Mr. W just smiles  at her ,  kinda soft, and it makes his eyes crinkle like Cas’s does — like her  d ad’s did.

_Like probably half the planet’s does_ , she reminds herself. There’s no point feeling sappy about it.

“Yeah, yeah. Eat your gross sandwich, kid. I have stuff to do. Being a n adult isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know.”

She scoffs, but quietly starts in on her PB&J, and by the time lunch is over, she feels . . . okay. As much as she ever does, anyway.

When her poem gets handed back in class later, there’s a  _100_ written at the top. Next to it, Mr. W’s written:

_Lovely work, Claire. You really made the most of the prompt, and I don’t doubt this one’ll stay with me. Keep it up._

She manages not to grin like a maniac, but it takes effort.

Maybe there are some things she  _can_ do right.

Cas picks Claire up from Hester’s after school, and maybe it’s his imagination, but she appears to be in an unusually good mood.

“How was your day?” he tries to ask,  as he always does, although she  typically gives him some kind of brush-off.

“Fine,” she returns, like a reflex.

“Nothing good happened?”

She eyes him, wary, then apparently decides it’s not a trap.

“Well — I got a good grade.”

“Oh. That’s wonderful, Claire. On what?” It’s not really a surprise. In addition to being very clever, Claire’s a hard worker, and while she’s prone to distraction, she formed habits in childhood that have thus far proven hard to break.

“A poem for English. Mr. W said — well. I got a hundred on it.”

Ah. Claire’s mentioned her English teacher a few times, and Cas is pretty sure he has him to thank for her new reading hobby.

Jimmy had joked, in that awkward, genuinely concerned way, that they’d better be careful or Claire would take after Cas in adolescence, as she did in so many other things.

It had hurt him, at the time, though he’d laughed along. Anyway, he’d doubted Claire would be left feeling quite as stranded and alienated as he had,  h ad naively determined to make sure she  _didn’t._

There’s no knowing the future, he supposes.

“I’d ask to see it—"

Claire makes a strangled noise.

“What? No!”

He side-eyes her.

“I’d ask to see it,” he repeats, then finishes, “But  _that._ ”

She lifts her chin.

“Why would you even  _want_ to?”

“So I, too, can praise your brilliance. Obviously.”

She wrinkles her nose.

“Whatever. It wasn’t anything special. Mr. W’s just nice.”

“Even the nicest teachers don’t hand out A’s for nothing.”

Claire just sniffs.

And then her stomach growls.

“We could go to Missouri’s?” he quickly suggests, hopeful, but unsurprisingly, she refuses.

She doesn’t like not having a room to retreat to, just in case, but Cas also knows they need to spend more time together having fun, rather than sitting in silence in their desolate two-bedroom apartment.

He’s not about to force her, though, and they’re quiet the rest of the drive. Once they’re home, she throws her backpack on the sofa and starts shucking off her shoes.

She winces, wriggling puffy red feet once they’re free.

“Are you alright?” He just bought her new shoes before the school year started, but he knows kids can grow erratically, and it would be _just_ like her not to tell him they were already too small—

“Yeah. We did running in P.E., so I’m just sore.”

Oh.

Cas perks up.

Claire notices, eyes turning suspicious as he darts off toward the bathroom.

“What are you—"

“Stay,” he instructs her, although she could easily call his bluff.

“Not a dog!” she complains, but he’s already in the bathroom, gathering supplies.

He goes back out a few minutes later, pleased to see her still slumped sullenly on the sofa.

Nudging the coffe e table aside with his  leg ,  h e sets the foot bath in front of her, giving her a hopeful look. It’s cheap move, but he can tell the moment it works.

(Jimmy once went to Wal-Mart for peanut butter at one in the morning, because of that look.)

“Fine,” she sighs, and beaming, he grabs the bucket of hot water and pours it in, after which she reluctantly sticks her feet in and gestures for him to hit the button.

Cas may not  ever  know what he  _should_ do, but sometimes he knows what he  _can_ do, and perhaps, in the long run, that will be worth something.

He turns the TV on to the last watched cooking show and, satisfied by Claire’s hum of approval, goes to make dinner.

They’ve finished eating the frozen stir fry and are wrapping up the episode when Claire grumbles that the water’s cold, and Cas speaks without thinking.

“Should I get the pedi stuff?”

She instantly freezes, and  Cas wants to kick himself. Amelia had kept to a mani/pedi schedule as religiously as her actual church activities, and the three of them made a night of it every couple weeks while Jimmy watched on and occasionally despaired of Cas’s participation (not that it stopped him from insisting on choosing colors for whoever was willing to let him that week).

Cas and Jimmy had  tried to maintain the tradition after Amelia had passed away, as a comfort to Claire, but the kit had sat untouched since his brother’s accident, and now that he’s stupidly brought it up, Claire’s going to get upset and storm off  and the whole rare, fragile mood of the evening will be —

“Okay,” she says quietly, watching him. “We can do that, if you really want to.”

It takes him a minute to process, and when he does, he practically trips over himself in his haste to get up.

“Yes. I — my feet are a mess.”

She nods slowly, studying him.

“Yeah. Well, my hands aren’t great, either, if you think we have time.”

Honestly, Cas will stay up all night painting nails with her if she wants, is surprised she doesn’t _know_ that, but saying so will probably be too much pressure, so he bites his tongue.

“Mine, too,” he says instead, aiming for nonchalance. He’s pretty sure Charlie won’t care if he shows up to work with glam nails, anyway.

Fifteen minutes later, they’ve buffed away their calluses and are laying a primer on their toenails, and Cas decides, as he often does, to push his luck.

“So, what are you working on in your classes?”

She frowns, but after a moment of consideration, answers.

“We’re doing polynomials in math. And weather stuff in science, which is really boring. Oh, but now that we’re done with poetry, we’re starting plays in English, so — so that’s cool, I guess.”

“English was my favorite when I was in school,” he tells her, because he doesn’t think he has before.

“Really?”

“Yes. Grandma and Grandpa didn’t like us reading fiction at home.”

Her mouth falls open.

“Are you  _serious_ ? Even Mom and Dad let me read Harry Potter!”

Cas pauses, because he remembers that argument.

_Everyone’s read it, Jimmy, she’s not going to become a satanist just because a bunch of teenagers band together to fight an evil wizard._

Amelia had shrugged —  _he has a point —_ and Jimmy’d finally caved. He’d even tried watching the movies with them, once it was clear that Claire was not, in fact, going to become a satanist, but he’d had to quit after the first one, because  _how can children go through all th_ _at_ _?!_

Cas swallows a lump. He would have done well to have half the heart his brother had  had .

“Things have changed a lot,” he tells her. After all, Hester watched the  _Guardians of the Galaxy_ movie with them and  _laughed_ at it. Eighteen-year-old him wants a refund. “I’m not sure you would have been able to tolerate it.”

“No kidding,” she agrees, then pauses. “It’s my favorite, too.”

“ I hope you continue to enjoy it.”

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet again.

“What about friends?” he asks, a little hopeful.

Claire pauses over her little toe, giving him a look. He sighs.

“Fine. Has anyone else tried to throw their slushies at you?”

She snorts.

“No. They can’t find me anymore.”

Cas tilts his head, worried.

“Claire — are you  _hiding_ from people during lunch?”

“What? No!  And I’m not  _afraid_ of anybody. I just don’t feel like dealing with other people, so I eat in Mr. W’s room.”

Cas stops painting, a sudden chill going through him.

“I see,” he says, as neutrally as possible. “That’s . . . cool. That he lets students eat in there.”

“Well — sometimes people stop by to see him, but it’s mostly just me. He has a huge bookcase in there, so I get to read.”

So . . . Claire eats lunch in this guy’s classroom, every day, just the two of them.

Great.

He tries not to panic.

It doesn’t really work.

“Um, it, uh, it doesn’t bother his work?”

She suddenly looks defensive.

“No,  h e said it was okay. I’m not bothering him. I mostly read. And he doesn’t mind talking to us;  h e’s friends with a lot of the  kids .” She scowls. “Not all teachers hate their students.”

“Of course not,” he says quickly. “And you’re great company, Claire, I just — I was just surprised.”

“Hm.” She gives him another frown, going back to her polishing, and he hurries to change the subject, asking what he missed while he was cooking.

She fills him in on the episode’s highlights, more relaxed and chatty than he’s seen her in a while, but he only listens with half an ear, barely comforted by the fact.

Instead, he’s frantically piecing together everything she’s ever told him about English class and Mr. W, and wondering if he’s allowed himself to become so distracted by Dean he’s utterly failed to notice an issue he should have been paying attention to long before today.

Well, it has his attention now. And he’s certainly not going to stand by and do nothing.

No, tomorrow, he’s taking a long lunch and going down to the school to figure out _exactly_ what this so-called Mr. W is up to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** SPOILERS **
> 
> Claire’s difficulties adjusting: Claire has been eating lunch in the library after the incident with the slushie; she visits Dean to return the volume of Emily Dickinson and discuss it, and at the end, admits she has been eating in the library and asks if she can eat in his classroom, instead. Dean’s first instinct is to say no, but he ultimately relents out of concern that Claire will end up talking to no one at school, and he negotiates for her to make more of an effort to make friends in class. You may have different opinions about whether it was okay for him to agree to this; these things aren’t always black and white, and I apologize if you feel like that was a bad judgment call on his part; you may trust that he is genuinely trying to do what’s best for his student when none of the options are ideal, however.
> 
> Additionally, a poem Claire turns in makes it clear that she potentially has more serious issues. There are a few red flags at this point, but Dean opts to talk to her and kind of wait and see until he has a better feel for things. I apologize if your impression is that he should have been more immediately proactive; it’s very difficult to know what a child may be dealing with at home, though, and the last thing you want to do is cause problems or exacerbate a bad situation by contacting their parents when it’s possible there are very good reasons you should not. Dean’s using his own judgment to decide she’s mostly stable for now, and that it’s safe to wait and see in order to get a better idea of how he can best help her without potentially putting her more at risk.
> 
> Cas’s anxiety about Claire’s relationship with Mr. W: When Claire casually mentions spending her lunch with Mr. W in his classroom, Cas panics, suddenly putting all the pieces together – Mr. W loaning her books, English being Claire’s favorite class and Mr. W being someone she’s mentioned on more than one occasion, etc. – and worrying that he may have overlooked the warning signs of a problem. No specific fears are addressed or detailed, but it’s made clear that he’s worried Claire could potentially be in danger from an adult predator here.


	17. Part II: should I, should I?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: more of Cas’s concerns about Mr. W, brief reference to non-explicit fantasy (western), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> The moment you’ve all (or at least some of you have) been waiting for! :D Thank you so much for reading and sharing your thoughts, and please enjoy! ♡

> _Should I call you ‘baby’?_
> 
> _Baby, should I call?_
> 
> _Or baby, should I call you a friend?_
> 
> _Should I call you, baby?_
> 
> _Baby, should I call?_
> 
> _Or should I never call you again . . ._
> 
> _-_ _Should I, Phoebe Ryan_

And so, at twelve-thirty the next day, Cas determinedly marches into the front office of Lawrence Junior High to ask for a visitor’s pass and directions to one Mr. W’s classroom.

“Down the hall and to the right, you’ll find Wing E, and he’s room 503. I don’t think he has class after lunch, so he might not be there, but it’s been a while since I’ve seen him go off-campus to eat.”

Cas doesn’t like that news, that Mr. W is staying on campus just so he can hang around Cas’s teenage niece, but he manages a stiff smile and thanks the woman before setting off in search of this asshole’s classroom.

Of course, it’s entirely possible that the guy is _not_ actually a creep, and is instead just a really good teacher; but Cas barely slept last night, low-level terror leaving him wide-eyed in the dark as he considered all the worst-case scenarios, and he’s not feeling particularly reasonable right now. No, mostly, he’s convinced himself that Mr. W is a devious predator and actually, Hester will have to take Claire in after all, because Cas will be on trial for a murder he not only committed, but committed with relish.

He finds Wing E and starts down the corridor, scanning room numbers as he nears his destination. Most of the doors seem to be open, at least, which is a good sign.

503 is, too.

But a door can be quietly shut at any moment; and if his experiences with Dean in high school taught him anything, it’s that people generally don’t look twice at a closed door.

Gritting his teeth, he takes the last few steps and walks into the classroom.

The first thing he notices is Claire — sitting behind a desk about five feet away from the front of Mr. W’s, to his relief — PB&J in hand. She’s reading, posture relaxed and content.

Which probably won’t last; he’s under no illusions as to how she’ll feel about him showing up here, but he hopes, someday, she’ll understand.

The next thing he notices is Dean, mouth soft as he chews at the end of a pen in a fashion that a truly civilized country would outlaw, staring down at the top sheet in a stack of papers.

On the teacher’s desk.

Behind which he is sitting.

Cas’s brain short-circuits, and Dean looks up, doing a double-take.

The pen falls to the desk with a light clatter.

“ _Cas?_ ”

Claire’s head snaps up, and her eyes go wide.

“Uh. Hello, Dean.”

“Hey.” Dean scoots his chair back and stands, the beginnings of a smile on his face, though he still looks confused. “What’re you doing here?”

“I . . . I’m here to see Claire.” _And assess whether I need to jump her English teacher in a dark alley and make sure no one ever finds the body._

Apparently, Cas has been thinking about jumping her English teacher and doing unspeakable things to his body for much, much longer than he thought.

“Claire?” Dean repeats, smile disappearing before it’s even fully-formed. His gaze slowly moves to her, brow creasing.

“Yes,” Cas manages. Claire looks vaguely panicked, and while he supposes it’s not _impossible_ that Dean’s a creep with malicious plans for his niece, it would be a surprise. Cas _does_ know, for fact, that he is a deeply kind person, and in reality, the only thing Claire probably fell prey to here is how inexplicably comforting Dean’s presence tends to be.

“You — she — she’s _yours_?” Dean chokes out, and Cas blinks.

“N—"

“Yeah,” Claire interrupts quickly, avoiding Cas’s appalled gaze. “Mr. W, this — this is my, um, my dad.”

She stands, awkwardly coming to a stop at Cas’s side. He stares down at her, entirely uncomprehending, but she still doesn’t look at him.

Dean does, though. Cas finally tears his eyes away, and yes, there Dean is, utterly flabbergasted, which _of course he is._

Cas is effectively in the same boat.

“Uh.” He feels a pressure on his sleeve, at that; a glance down confirms that it’s Claire, hand gripping the fabric loosely. When he meets her eyes, they’re vaguely pleading.

And he’s not sure why she needs him to, but she clearly _wants_ him to lie, and there isn’t any question that he’ll do it. She basically _is_ his now, isn’t she?

She’s got no one else.

“Yes. Claire is — my daughter. I didn’t realize you were Mr. W.”

“Uh.” Dean blinks. “Yeah. That’s, uh, what the kids call me.”

He looks no less shocked.

Cas clears his throat.

“Well. I was looking forward to meeting you. Claire loves your class.”

“C- _Dad,_ ” Claire mutters, but he’s allotting her one accomplice-lie per day from here on out.

Dean laughs weakly.

“Yeah. Yeah, she — you’ve got a great kid, there. Actually, I was looking forward to talking with you at the parent-teacher conference in a couple weeks.”

Dean says it like he means it, despite the fact that he’s obviously still working through this new development, and Cas wonders what he wanted to talk about.

He’ll be asking him later, certainly. Bumbling along through Dean’s cleverly-devised traps with little effort to protect himself was one thing when it was just him, but he can’t _assume_ Dean can be trusted just because of past experience and questionable gut feelings. If Claire is in any way involved, things are different. They have to be.

Claire clears her throat.

“So — how do you guys know each other?”

Dean blinks.

“Oh. Uh, my friend Charlie runs the company your — dad, works at. I always go to the company events.”

Cas doesn’t argue, though there’s a brief surge of anger that Dean expects him to _lie_ to his _daughter._

“Oh, yeah?” Claire’s eyes flick between them. “Cool. Cas knew her in high school.”

Dean’s smile looks pained.

“Yep. Charlie knows practically everybody, seems like.”

“Right.” Claire stares at him for a moment, then turns to Cas. She starts, abruptly releasing his sleeve. “Anyways, uh — Dad. What are you doing here?”

Cas awkwardly holds out the umbrella he brought.

“The forecast said it was going to rain.”

She squints at him.

“Wow. Considerate,” she comments dryly, and Dean makes a weird wheezing sound.

“Of course. That’s . . . me.”

Claire rolls her eyes.

“You should probably get going then, _Dad._ Thanks for the umbrella,” she adds, eyes daring, and Cas knows when he’s beat. He’s mostly sure she’s not in any imminent danger, at least, and he’ll be catching up with Dean soon.

“Alright. Enjoy the rest of your day, Claire. I’ll see you after school.”

She’s already heading back to her desk.

“See you,” she mumbles.

Dean stays standing, expression unreadable as he looks at Cas.

Cas, for his part, decides to try and figure it out later, and with a nod, he walks out.

He’s barely made it out of Wing E when his phone chimes.

>> claire’s lunch ends in ten. you got time to stick around?

Cas doesn’t know what, specifically, Dean wants to talk about so urgently (though it probably has to do with the fact that Cas apparently has a thirteen-year-old daughter he never mentioned), but he certainly has some things to say to Dean himself, so damn it, he’ll make the time.

He lets the front desk know he’s waiting to meet with Dean, then settles in a chair in the office to wait.

It’s a long ten minutes, during which Cas, no longer immediately concerned for Claire, wonders what this might mean for Dean’s plans. Lately, he feels like Dean’s been working up to something, and it’s left him wracked with nerves and indecisive over what to do when that something finally happens. But Dean was clearly thrown for a loop today, and based on his reaction . . . the situation with Claire _definitely_ matters.

The question is — how?

Once the main hall empties after the class change, he heads back to Dean’s room.

Dean is in his chair, staring into space, and Cas finds himself inappropriately distracted now that he has the opportunity to observe, eyes lingering on the crisp white button-down and blue and red tie. His sleeves are rolled up his forearms, exposing strong wrists and lightly tanned skin, and the tie looks like he’s been tugging at it since Cas was last in here.

Cas forces himself to remember why he’s actually here.

“You wanted to talk?”

Dean looks up, something deeply perplexed to his expression.

“Yeah.” He spins his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach, and gives Cas a searching look. “You — you never said you had a daughter.”

Cas slowly shakes his head.

“No. I guess I didn’t.”

There’s silence. Cas supposes Dean must be waiting for him to elaborate, but he really doesn’t have anything else to say.

“Okay,” Dean finally says, pursing his lips.

Cas hesitates.

“I didn’t know you taught eighth grade. You, uh. Never said.”

Dean laughs, humorless.

“Didn’t think it mattered.”

“Does it?” Cas counters, and Dean narrows his eyes.

Then he looks away.

“Guess not,” he mutters, and Cas bristles.

“You lied to Claire about how we knew each other. Did it not occur to you that that might make things difficult for me?”

“ _Difficult_ ? Dude — I lied because I _didn’t_ want to cause you problems, not that it—" he breaks off, running a hand through his hair. “Damn it. Anyway. This isn’t — look, what I wanted to talk to you about was Claire.”

Cas stiffens.

“What about Claire?”

He watches Dean closely, searching for any signs he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he missed.

Dean sighs.

“Normally, I’d have waited for conferences, since she seems stable, and I don’t like causing trouble for the kids. But since it turns out I know you, and you’re here anyways, I might as well.” He takes a breath. “She’s a good student, Cas, really bright, but she seems to be struggling in other ways.”

Oh.

Cas deflates.

“Struggling how?”

Dean gestures for him to sit, and reluctantly, he does.

“Claire eats lunch in here — _every day,_ ” he adds meaningfully, probably assuming this is news to Cas. “I’ve tried to talk her into giving the lunch room another try, but she gets upset, and if I’m too hard on her, I’m worried she’ll just go back to hiding in the library — not to mention her feelings will be hurt. I know she had an incident with another student, but it sounds like she’s just not talking to _anyone._ ”

Cas suspected as much, but he’s at a loss for how to handle it.

“Yes. Yes, she’s — it’s been difficult on her.”

Dean nods, frowning.

“I let her eat in here on the grounds that she’s supposed to interact more in class, and I think she _has_ tried — just, nothing sticks. And she also wrote a poem, recently, about — she seems to feel like she’s not enough. And like people leave her? And I know she just moved here, and it’s a tough age for any of the kids, but — is there anything else going on? I know it’s not technically my business, but—" he shrugs. “It’d be good to see her sort things out, and I’d like to help, if I can.”

Cas almost laughs. _Yes,_ there’s a lot else going on. These difficulties really aren’t a surprise, however heartbreaking they might be. Certainly, Claire has every reason to feel abandoned and left behind, orphaned and stuck with her sorry excuse for an uncle as she’s been.

But Claire has her pride, too, and Dean seems to be the only friend she’s managed to make here. And what can Dean _do_ , even if Cas confides in him? He can’t fix things for either one of them; no one can. At best, it’ll burden him, and at worst, cause him to treat Claire differently.

The best thing he can do for Claire, he decides, is to go along with her lie.

“I — I guess you’re right. She must just be having trouble fitting in here.” Cas swallows. “The move has been . . . extremely difficult, for her.”

Dean stares.

“Right. Okay. Well — I can try my best to get her to engage, but you might talk to her? If you can? I know it’s tough, but . . .” He sighs. “At least she’s not being bullied, as far as I can tell.”

“I sincerely hope you’re right. I — she hasn’t said anything to suggest that’s the case, but she’s not, uh, big on talking. I’ll try, though. Hopefully — things will get better.”

Dean looks a little frustrated.

“Yeah. Hopefully. Well, good talk, I guess. Just . . . wanted to let you know.”

“Thank you, Dean.” Cas hesitates. “You’re a good teacher.”

He wisely doesn’t share the worries that had driven him to come here today.

Dean shakes his head.

“I wish there was more I could do.”

“Me, too,” Cas says, and Dean just keeps looking at him, like he’s still waiting for something.

“Alright. I guess I’ll see you later, Cas,” he finally says, once it becomes clear it’s not coming.

“Later, Dean.”

Cas leaves, and tries to convince himself he’s not just running away.

Okay.

So, Cas — Cas has a _daughter._

That he hasn’t mentioned. Like, _at all._ Even though that’s the kind of thing that should have naturally come up in conversation, right?

And sure, he never said he _didn’t_ have one, but Dean still feels completely _lied_ to.

All the nights they’ve hung out together, and this is the first Dean’s hearing about it. Hell, they’d done their grocery shopping together, and Cas had fed him some bullshit line about cooking for one — _which,_ now that he thinks about it, kind of _is_ a lie.

And Dean — god, here Dean had been, blindly running forward because he somehow thought Cas was right where he wanted him, when it turns out, Cas has just been _playing the game._

God _damn_ it, how is he still this much of an idiot? All the signs were there, he’d thought, but he’ d been totally wrong. Cas still doesn’t trust him as far as he can throw him. In fact, Cas hasn’t said a word about himself, for the most part, which _should_ have been a huge red flag, but no, Dean was so desperate for a win he’d ignored everything but Cas’s pretty blue eyes staring up at him with what he’d wanted so badly to believe was _longing,_ and now here they fucking are.

And once again, he has no idea what to do. And he can’t even ask anyone for advice, because they’ll just tell him he shouldn’t have been screwing around with Cas in the first place.

What a fucking _mess._

It’s not even like the thought never crossed his mind. When Claire first showed up in his class, sporting that pesky last name and a startling pair of blue eyes, Dean had wondered if she was somewhere in the family tree. Cas had _eight_ siblings; maybe Cas didn’t talk about his family that much, given the whole religious-homophobic thing, but Dean was pretty sure he was somewhere in the middle.

Which means there are a few older Novaks running around somewhere, possibly even close to home, and Claire could very well have been one of theirs. Or even a much younger cousin.

But his _kid_?

For God’s sake, she’s in the eighth grade. Even with a May birthday, she’s still gotta be at least twelve. Cas fucked him over almost eleven years ago, exactly, and even if Dean _is_ an English teacher, math was actually always his better subject, and he can add.

And yet, Cas has the nerve to be pissed at _Dean_ for lying to Claire, when Dean doesn’t even know anything about who or where her mother is and _somehow,_ his first instinct had been to not get Cas in trouble.

Which is fucking _stupid,_ because if Cas has anybody to answer to, what the hell has he been doing on Dean’s sofa every weekend? Why did he let Dean take him to _moonshine_ and practically grind against him on the dance floor? Why does he look at Dean like he’s _waiting,_ like he not only _expects_ Dean to make a move at anytime, but _wants_ him to?

Well, there’s a simple explanation for that, actually: Cas was a conniving piece of shit in high school and, lo and behold, not a damn thing has changed.

Certainly, he still does a damn good job of pretending to be otherwise.

So — if Cas has a wife, or hell, _anything_ going on with Claire’s mom . . . what does Dean do now?

The reality is, Cas is a dickbag and he definitely has this coming — but his family doesn’t. Seducing a married dude . . . that’s gotta be going too far, right?

But — but maybe that’s not what he’s doing. Could Cas seriously be married? How _could_ he? Everything in Dean struggles to believe it, and he’s not even sure why.

Of course, it’s only natural to be upset, right? If Cas is married, it means Dean’s completely missed his chance here. He’ll never have another shot at getting Cas back for what he did, and after _everything —_ that’ll just be it, for them. For Dean.

Anyway, around and around he goes, frustration mounting, until before he knows it, it’s Friday, and he’s in no way prepared to spend two hours crowded together on a sofa with Cas now that he has no idea what the hell they’re actually doing there — what it’s _okay_ for them to be doing there.

He texts him.

<< hey I don’t think I can do tonight. not feeling great.

>> Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.

>> Will I still see you tomorrow?

Dean wants to say no, because he’s not sure which way is up right now and honestly, he’d rather not see Cas until he figures it out, but Charlie will have his head if he doesn’t attend Hex-trava-bone-za.

<< yeah of course

<< have a good night, see you tomorrow

>> Good night, Dean.

Dean tosses his phone aside without even bothering to try and decipher any of it.

But come to think of it, if Cas has a family, why the hell weren’t they at Kickoff? The only explanation is that Cas has been deliberately keeping them secret from Dean, so — what’s his angle?

And of course, _Claire_ still sits across from him at lunch every day, shooting him curious, speculative looks when she thinks he’s not looking, and Dean’s actively dreading the day she gathers the nerve to ask. He’s gotten to know her pretty well, now, and she’ll _definitely_ ask.

He sleeps poorly.

Still, he puts on his sheriff costume like a big boy and shows up early to help Charlie with last minute setup stuff. It’s a big enough event now that there’s not much for him to do, most of it being in the hands of professionals, but he knows she appreciates the support.

She’s just come to find him, having been busy greeting the first arrivals, when they spot Cas.

Claire’s with him.

And . . . so are two women.

“The sexy redhead’s his sister,” Pamela announces, appearing seemingly out of nowhere.

Dean tries to bite his tongue, but he can’t.

“Yeah? What about the sexy brunette?”

Pamela shrugs.

“Anybody’s guess. I’ve seen her around with both of them.”

“Ahem. Whose sister?” Charlie asks, even though she’s staring directly at the four of them, herself.

“Casanovak,” Pamela drawls, eyes twinkling. “Neither one of you are subtle, for the record.”

Charlie gives Dean an anxious look, swatting his arm.

“Dude, why are you staring at Cas?” she demands, and he stares at her instead.

“Why are _you_ staring at him?”

“I’m not—" she cuts off, looking guilty. “I wasn’t! I was checking out his hot sister!”

Pamela snorts, and Dean just rolls his eyes.

“I’ve never seen you date another redhead in your life, but sure. Anyway, _I_ was just people watchin’.” He sighs, and tries not to sound as upset as he feels when he adds, “The brunette’s probably his wife.”

They both gape at him.

“ _What_ ? What makes you say that?” Charlie, of course, has the nerve to fucking sound _pleased._

“’Cause the kid’s his daughter. She’s in my class.”

“Are you _fucking serious_? Wait, how are you just now telling me this?”

“ _Because_ I just found out this week.”

Pamela puts an arm around him in a comforting squeeze.

“Ouch. Sorry, hon. I know you had your heart set on getting him back.”

Dean and Charlie both choke on their own spit, and she raises her brows.

“For what he did to you?”

“Oh.”

“Not gonna lie,” she continues easily, “He would’ve deserved _exactly_ what he’d end up getting. Them’s the breaks, I guess. But! I see the bar opening over there, so I am gonna have to catch up with you two later. Behave yourselves!”

She tips her pirate hat and saunters away.

When Dean finally tears his eyes away from the happy family again, Charlie’s giving him a wary look.

“You okay?”

“’Course I am. I just — it surprised me. Never figured him for a family man,” he lies. Yeah, Cas was a free spirit, in pretty much every sense — not to mention a douchebag — but while Dean’s imaginings had been conspicuously absent of any spouses or children, the idea doesn’t really seem that strange, now that he considers it.

Nah, the real surprise is that Cas _does_ have a family, but has been doing everything short of officially dating Dean for the past month.

_Fucker._

“And you’re sure he’s married, right?”

“Who else would she be?” he counters, ignoring the hope in her voice, and yep, she looks disappointed.

“So you’re _not_ sure.”

“Charlie,” he snaps, and she holds up her hands.

“Right, right, sorry.” She awkwardly pats his shoulder. “Welp, you’re probably right, that’s gotta be Mrs. Casanovak. Good for him.”

Dean just glares.

“Hey! Don’t be mad at me. Actually, wait. Why _are_ you so mad? And what the hell was Pamela talking about? I thought you didn’t care he was back.”

Well, fuck.

He shrugs, looking down.

“’Cause . . .” Damn it, she _already_ didn’t believe him. “’Cause — Claire’s like, thirteen.”

“What does that have to—" She stops, eyes going wide. “Wait, you guys were together _eleven_ years ago!”

“Well, except we weren’t actually together.”

“Screw that! He was _cheating_ on you!”

Dean shrugs.

“He got around. Maybe he didn’t know, then.”

Charlie looks unimpressed.

“That son of a bitch. I can’t believe I ever felt so—" She coughs. “So — invested. In your relationship. When he was obviously a jerk.”

Dean doesn’t even want to know what’s going on with her, and he doesn’t ask.

“Look, I appreciate the solidarity, but our relationship was never real to him. He probably wouldn’t have thought he was cheating.”

Charlie’s silent, jaw tight, and then she huffs.

“I _hate_ him,” she mutters.

“Don’t. Waste of energy, trust me. It was a long time ago, anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah, and you’re ‘over it,’” she quotes. “But fine! I’ll let it go if you do.”

“Deal.” He plasters on a fake smile, at which she rolls her eyes. “Don’t you have a bone fest to preside over?”

“Hex-trava-bone-za,” she corrects him. “And yes. I’ll see you in a bit. Go, play, do whatever, okay? I’ll be pissed if I see you sulking.”

“Yeah, alright. See you later, Charlie.”

Charlie leaves him, and while he doesn’t quite manage to _play,_ he does catch up with a lot of friends, and more importantly, he avoids Cas for the next two hours.

If only he could _forget_ he was there, too.

“Soooo,” Valencia starts, while Anna and Claire try their hand at an apple-bobbing game. Or rather, Anna’s won three games thus far and Claire has refused to participate, but she’s enjoying watching her Aunt win. “Why is your boyfriend ignoring you?”

Cas sighs. He was hoping they wouldn’t notice Dean. Or the fact that Dean hasn’t come anywhere near them, despite being hours into the event.

He hopes Claire isn’t bothered by that, but if her feelings _do_ get hurt because Dean insists on being a _child_ about this, then Cas will absolutely have something to say about it.

“Because he found out Claire is my daughter.”

Valencia nods sagely.

“Ah. That makes sense. You know, since she’s . . . not.”

“No, but she told him she was.”

“When did she even _meet_ him?”

“He’s her teacher. I — I was worried, when I found out she spends her lunch with her English teacher every day, not to mention he gave her all those books to read, and his class is the only thing she likes about school, so I thought I should go down there and just — check on things.”

“Holy _shit._ Your boyfriend is _Mr. W_?”

“Yes,” he confirms, morose.

“And you’re sure he’s not a creep, right?”

“I’m fairly certain he’s not, otherwise he wouldn’t still be walking around.”

She gives him a disapproving look.

“You know you’re supposed to invite me when you go murder crazy assholes to keep Claire safe.”

“I’m _so_ sorry, I had no idea.”

“A shared sentence is halved, after all.”

“That’s not how the law works.”

“Eh,” she shrugs, smiling. “Seriously, though. Why’d she tell him that?”

Cas shakes his head.

“She’s been avoiding the subject, but if I had to guess, I’d say she’s afraid he’ll look at her differently. People do.”

“Ah. Yeah, that’s fair. But wait — _that’s_ why he’s avoiding you?”

Cas just shrugs.

“Maybe? Probably?” He still doesn’t know what to make of Dean canceling on him, though he could just be being paranoid. “Oh. Well, he also doesn’t want my boss to know we’re talking.”

Valencia stares.

“Okay?”

In hindsight, that probably wasn’t prudent to share.

“Uh. She’s not . . . _happy,_ that I’m back in town.”

“Cas,” Val says kindly, brown eyes earnest. “Not to be dramatic, or anything, but I may _literally die_ if you don’t tell me this story.”

He shakes his head.

“I’ll miss you, then.”

“ _Wow,_ that’s cold.”

Anna and Claire return, then, a vampire platypus plushie tucked under one of his sister’s arms.

“I bobbed the _shit_ out of those apples,” she announces. Claire smirks, but she seems happy.

“For sure. You totally left the apples shitless.”

“Claire,” he reprimands, and she rolls her eyes. He’s not really angry; Claire had barely agreed to come out tonight, on the condition that Val and Anna came, too, and Cas is just happy she’s having a good time.

She straightens suddenly.

“Hey, there’s Mr. W. Can I go say hi?”

Cas follows her gaze. Dean is grabbing a hand pie from one of the stands, beautiful in profile, if somewhat shadowed by the brim of his cowboy hat. There’s a shiny gold star pinned to his snug-fitting vest, and if Cas is being honest, half his sour mood tonight is due to the fact that every time there’s a lull in conversation, his eyes stray to Dean and he falls into some dirty fantasy where he has to negotiate his way out of a Wild West gaol cell and Dean just happens to be the handsome sheriff with the keys . . .

“Cas?” Claire prompts, impatient, and he swallows hard.

He doesn’t even _have_ that kink.

“Uh. Sure.”

She starts off, then pauses.

“Are you coming?”

“Uh . . .”

He can feel Valencia watching with avid interest.

“I thought you guys talked at these things, or whatever,” Claire points out.

“Right. Yes, of course.” Reluctantly, he follows.

Cas worries, as they near, that perhaps Dean needs more time alone with his hand pie, given the way his tongue is lavishing attention on the generous clot of filling at the top, but Claire is already walking up to him.

“Howdy,” she says seriously, and Dean glances up, grinning as he swallows his bite.

“Howdy there, little lady. I trust you ain’t up to no good?”

She shrugs.

“No more than any other cowboy,” she drawls, and then squints into the distance.

Dean chuckles, eyes crinkling fondly, and it leaves Cas with a pang.

He and Claire aren’t dressed up tonight, of course, but before they’d lost Jimmy, they would always do matching costumes. Her favorite part of the whole thing was acting in character.

It’s been a long time since they’ve had fun like that, yet here she is, cowboy face on, playing around with Dean. He knows not to take it personally, but it stings a little.

Still — he supposes he should just be glad to see her like this again.

“Yeah, well, keep it within the law, you hear? I’m not authorized to issue detentions at the moment.”

She looks at him, the barest hint of smugness in her steady gaze.

“Well, thank you kindly for remindin’ me.” She tips an invisible hat, “As you were, sheriff.”

Dean balks.

“Christ, how could I have missed whose kid you were?” he grumbles, and Claire looks taken aback.

Cas coughs. At the sound, Dean’s head whips toward him.

“Oh. Uh, Cas. Hey.”

“Hello, Dean. Are you—" He stops, mindful of Claire listening. “How are you, today?”

Dean glances at Claire, and when he looks back, there’s something wary in his eyes.

It makes Cas ache. Real or not, he hoards their interactions like treasure, and the idea that Dean will never again engage in playful banter like that with him is more than a little distressing.

“I’m doin’ alright, Cas. How ‘bout you? You guys having a good time?”

Claire shrugs.

“I guess. It’s not as boring as I expected.”

Dean nods, serious.

“High praise, indeed, kid.”

She just huffs in response, throwing Cas an exasperated look, as if to say, _can you believe this guy?_

Something in Cas’s chest is crumbling.

“So, you brought your family this time,” Dean points out, and it’s like he’s swiping a blunt finger through the dust left behind. Cas blinks.

“Ah, yes. Well, not all of them.”

Dean’s eyes widen.

“Wh—"

But the words get cut off by a small body flinging itself at him.

Cas recognizes the projectile as Ben, and Lisa appears seconds later, sheepish.

“I’m so sorry, I _tried_ to tell him you were in the middle of something, but . . .” She sighs, and Dean laughs, glancing down at her son.

“Hey, Ben,” he says, smile easy as he hugs back. He crouches to chat with him, then, and Cas wonders if this is his chance to escape Dean, along with his disturbingly appealing costume and sudden coolness toward Cas.

He looks at Claire, hopeful — only to find her frowning at Dean and Ben.

“I didn’t know you had kids,” she interrupts, and Dean freezes.

“Uh, I—"

“Are you his wife?” she asks Lisa, who’s raising her brows as she looks on.

Cas cringes inside, trying to figure out a way to apologize without making Claire feel too bad.

“No,” Lisa says slowly. “I’m Lisa, an old friend of Dean’s. It’s nice to meet you . . .?”

“Claire,” Claire says, sticking her hand out and regarding Lisa suspiciously. “I’m — Cas’s daughter.”

Lisa gives Cas a considering look, and he _really_ wishes he’d come up with any kind of excuse not to have come over here in the first place.

“Well, it’s great to meet you, Claire. I’m glad you could make it this time.” She pauses, smiling. “I think your dad really missed you, before.”

At that, Claire falters.

“Oh. I — I was — I had stuff,” she mumbles, fight departing, though Cas has no idea why it was there in the first place.

“Well,” he interjects, not wanting to waste his opportunity. “It was nice to see you again, Lisa. Claire and I should let you guys catch up.”

For some reason, Claire and Dean _both_ give him unhappy looks.

He firmly ignores them, placing a hand on Claire’s shoulder, which she promptly shrugs off. Dean clears his throat as he straightens back up.

“I’ll see you in class, Claire. Get the cowboy shenanigans out of your system before then, alright?”

“Will do, sheriff,” she mumbles.

“Have a good night,” Cas adds quickly, then awkwardly hurries away, relieved to hear Claire shuffling after him.

Anna and Val are waiting right where they left them, radiating curiosity.

“So? How’d it go?”

“Cas is an _idiot,_ ” Claire snaps, and then marches off to get punch.

“What . . . was that about?” Anna asks, and Cas sighs.

“I have no idea.”

“Something wrong, Claire?”

It’s Monday, and Dean’s spent the entire weekend stewing over the fact that he knows fuck-all about Cas, after all. It doesn’t help that they’re fifteen minutes into lunch, Claire won’t stop staring, and it’s making him antsy as all get out. He wonders what Cas said about him, if Cas talked about him at _all,_ even; i f it would really be _that_ inappropriate to sit here and demand Claire tell him everything she can possibly think of about her father’s personal life.

(It would be.)

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

She shrugs.

“Yep. I’m good.”

“Right.” He clears his throat, considering. He’s going to have to approach this from a different angle. “So, uh — you and your dad didn’t dress up.”

Really, what he wants to ask is, _so was that hot brunette your mom or what?_ but he doesn’t quite have the stones.

Claire goes still.

“No.”

“Too cool for costumes?” he teases, and she throws him an annoyed look.

“ _No._ Costumes _are_ cool. I just—" She shifts uncomfortably. “We didn’t have time.”

“Too bad.” He smirks. “Although that coat of his practically _is_ a costume.”

Unexpectedly, her shoulders slump. That’s . . . not a good sign.

“What’s up, Claire?” he asks softly, and she hesitates.

“He, um. That’s why he wears it, actually. When I was little, I went through a crazy _Inspector Gadget_ phase, so — so he’d go as the Inspector, and I’d be Penny, and I talked him into wearing the coat all the time.” She huffs, though her voice is a little unsteady. “I don’t know why he _still_ wears it, though.”

Dean’s heart is doing some painful, squeezing thing, because this story is both fucking _adorable_ and absolutely crushing.

“Cause he’s your dad and he loves you,” Dean manages. “It’s, uh, probably a good memory for him.”

His brain halfheartedly protests that Cas _can’t_ be the sentimental type, but then, his brain doesn’t seem to know _shit_ lately.

Claire flushes.

“Whatever. He’s a doof.”

“Aw, c’mon. You’re allowed to have feelings, Claire.”

“I don’t have—" she starts, then stops, probably realizing how ridiculous that sounds, and settles for glaring.

Dean chuckles.

“Tough guy, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“Nah. I was like that at your age, too.” And all the ages after that, but Claire doesn’t need to know.

She looks up at that, expression inscrutable, then abruptly switches topic.

“So, did you like, always live here? Like, did you go to high school here?”

Dean takes a moment, thrown — and a little suspicious.

“Why?”

“No reason,” she says quickly, looking back down. “Just wondering how much it’s gonna suck for me.”

“Uh-huh.” He pauses, still unsettled. “It’s not so bad. I stuck around, after all.”

“So you did?”

_Damn it._

“Yeah, I did.”

“Oh. Cool. Good to know.”

Dean doesn’t like her tone, but Claire casually picks up her book, then, and he doesn’t even know what to ask her, anyway.

It doesn’t stop it from bothering him well after she’s gone.

Cas hasn’t heard from Dean since Hex-trav-a-bone-za; another weekend passes without seeing him, and before he knows it, yet another is upon them.

It’s for the best, he’s sure, but Cas still feels like he’s lost something rather important.

On the upside, Claire’s been unusually civil to him the last couple of weeks, and tonight she actually asks, directly, if he’s okay.

“I’m fine, Claire,” he manages, once he’s recovered from shock. “Thank you.”

She shrugs.

“So. No more dates?”

Cas sighs.

“No.” He hopes she can at least be happy about that, but instead, she makes a face.

“Why not?

“I thought you didn’t approve, anyway,” he reminds her, and she looks away.

“Maybe not. But you must have really liked him if you’re admitting they’re dates now.”

Cas doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Well, they weren’t.”

She rolls her eyes, and they’re quiet a moment, sitting opposite one another at the table while Cas works on his laptop and Claire does homework.

“Hey,” she says suddenly. “Can I get a ride somewhere?”

“Where?” he asks, peering over the laptop. “And what do you mean? I’m not dropping you off somewhere strange, but I will go with you somewhere.”

“Works for me,” she agrees, unexpectedly cooperative. “Mis — I mean, my classmates were talking about this place in town where you can shop for like, books and games, and sort of hang out. I thought we could go.”

Cas is mildly relieved by how innocuous it all sounds, and it’s nice that Claire not only feels like she can ask, but doesn’t mind him going with her.

“Of course.” He shuts the laptop before she can change her mind.

“Now?” she asks, perking up.

“Why not? I’ll get my coat.”

Claire hops out of her chair, a barely-there smile on her face.

“Okay. I’ll google directions.”

Fifteen minutes later, Cas has driven up a hill that didn’t used to have anything at the top, and after parking, they walk into the cozy brick building. There are lanterns all around the wrap-around porch, and a couple people are curled up in chairs, reading. The wooden sign is painted in yellow and white, proclaiming welcome to _The Rookery_.

Cas glances around as they enter. It’s warmly lit, fairy lights strung across the walls and kitschy chandeliers coming down from vaulted ceilings. There’s a loft over a third of the room, overlooking tall bookcases and a little cafe. Nooks abound, plenty of places to sit throughout, and Cas is a little surprised by how large it feels.

“Oh, cool,” Claire remarks, suspiciously unsurprised as she jerks her head towards a corner by the cafe. “It’s Mr. W.”

Without waiting for Cas to recover from his stupor, she dashes off to greet him.

A large part of Cas wants to pretend he didn’t hear her and just post himself by the door, feigning screensaver mode until she’s ready to leave, but even so, his feet drag him after her, drag him toward Dean.

Were Dean not wearing the shirt-and-tie of his work clothes, one would be forgiven for mistaking him for some fey creature, crossed over from the next realm. The golden light both softens and brightens him, illuminating beautiful features and smooth, freckled skin. His lashes are dark, eyes downcast to a stack of papers on the table, and Cas watches, vaguely pained, as he twirls a pair of chopsticks and brings a bite of noodles to his mouth, carefully slurping at the morsel.

Personally, Cas thinks this should classify as public indecency.

“Hey, Mr. W!” Claire calls, and Dean chokes.

After a few minutes of coughing and throat-clearing, Dean turns to greet them.

“Oh, uh, hey, Claire. Cas.” He shifts in his seat. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad. Dad just brought me so I could look for books.”

Dean hesitates a split second, briefly catching Cas’s eye before glancing toward the table.

“Yeah, I think you’ve read everything on the classroom bookcase.”

“Everything worth reading,” Claire mutters. He gives her a sharp look.

“ _Wheel of Time_ ’s a classic.”

“And ‘classic’ is just code for boring.” Claire turns to inspect the genre signs over the bookcases, and Dean winks at Cas behind her back, mouthing something that looks suspiciously like ‘she’s right.’

It all makes his heart seem to stutter, and even though he has no idea where the hell they stand right now, he finds himself compulsively smiling back.

Dean stills.

And then his grin widens, eyes bright as he rubs his jaw, looking back at Cas.

“You know what? I think I’m gonna go look for books,” Claire announces dryly, and subsequently disappears behind a shelf without waiting for an answer.

The only reason Cas notices he doesn’t look up is because Dean doesn’t, either.

“I should—"

“Sit,” Dean blurts out, fumbling his papers around to make a space next to him.

The other side of the table is clear, but Cas doesn’t argue.

Carefully, he slides into the chair to Dean’s left, and they stare at one another for a moment before Cas opens his mouth to politely ask how Dean’s been.

“I haven’t heard from you,” is what comes out instead, quiet and sullen and obvious, so, _so_ obvious.

Dean’s jaw drops, and Cas looks away.

“No — I — uh, I just — I’ve had a bunch of work?” Dean trails off weakly, then frowns. “Hey — I haven’t heard from you, either.”

“Because you canceled on me.”

“Once!”

“As the person who canceled, you’re responsible for rescheduling,” Cas insists, though he’s baffled as to why he’s arguing about it.

Dean just gapes.

“ _Dude_.”

Cas leans backs, arms folded and eyes narrowed.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Well — well — you _lied_!”

Cas glares at the table.

“I didn’t lie.”

“You didn’t tell me!”

“I didn’t think it would matter to you!” he hisses, because he’s still not sure why it _does._

Dean huffs.

“Of course it does! It’s a big deal.”

“You’re being ridiculous. How does this change anything?”

Dean throws up his hands.

“You tell me!” he exclaims, mystifying as ever. What is he suggesting? What does he _want_ ? Yes, Claire being Dean’s student potentially makes his plans a trifle more awkward, but it’s not a complete impediment. Is it that he pities Cas? _Did_ Dean decide it was a shade too cruel for a single father instead of the hedonistic bachelor he’d been expecting? If so, he’s hardly acting like it right now.

Unless — is he angry because — would he not have befriended Claire, if he’d known who her father was?

“You — would you have treated her differently?” Cas demands, and Dean lurches back as if struck.

“ _What_ ? No! She’s a _kid_! Just because her father’s a dick doesn’t mean I would ever take it out on her!”

Cas flinches.

“That isn’t what I — I just — then _what,_ Dean? What would you have done differently?”

Dean shuts his mouth, jaw working.

“I — it’s not about _that,_ ” he finally says. “But — I don’t know, man. I thought we were — friends _._ Yet you didn’t trust me, and I wanna know why.” He looks at Cas, something dark and angry in his eyes. “What were you trying to hide?”

Cas looks back wordlessly.

Then he lifts his chin.

“Nothing, Dean. I didn’t think you’d care _._ ”

“’Course I fuckin’ care!” Dean snaps. “You said — you _agreed_ we could be friends again. Friends tell each other this shit!”

Cas struggles to find any words other than _but you don’t really want to be my friend._

“Well, now you know.”

Dean glares.

“ _Do_ I, Cas?”

“What does that even _mean_?”

“It means I still don’t know anything about you!”

 _But you know me,_ Cas wants to say, but of course that’s not enough. Dean needs to know the rest of it, needs to know _everything,_ so he can turn around and use it against him.

Cas sighs.

“What would you like to know, then?”

“Anything? Everything? Shit, man, how do you even have a daughter? And she’s like — what? Thirteen?”

“Yes.” Sadly, Dean is asking questions Cas has no _idea_ how to answer.

Dean leans forward, raising his eyebrows.

“ _And?_ ”

Cas averts his gaze.

“And . . . it . . . came as a surprise.”

Dean squints.

“So . . . you didn’t — like, when we were . . .”

“What?”

“Nothin’. Never mind. It’s not important.”

Still, he looks both flustered and frustrated.

“She’s not yours, if that’s what you’re asking,” Cas says, at a loss.

Dean’s just starting to glower again when there’s a loud snort from behind the nearest bookcase, followed by a suspicious silence.

Cas sighs.

“Claire. Are you finding everything alright?”

Quiet, then:

“Uh. Yep. I’m good.” She emerges, obviously reluctant.

“Well, if you’re ready to go—" He starts, only to be silenced by a sharp look from Dean.

“I’m not,” Claire supplies cheerfully. “I guess I better go find something.”

Cas narrows his eyes.

“You spend too much time at Anna’s,” he says flatly, and she sniffs, tossing her hair.

“Whose fault is _that_?” she retorts, and glances pointedly at Dean.

He blinks at her.

“Huh?”

“ _Anyway,_ I’m going. You guys enjoy your . . . chat.” She darts off, hopefully for real this time, although Cas doesn’t even want to know what she’s made of the things she already heard.

When he turns back to Dean, he looks strangely defeated.

“You — she’s a great kid,” he mumbles. “She’s a lot like you.”

Cas isn’t sure if the compliment is intentional or not; mostly, he’s torn between pride, because Claire _is_ a great kid, and guilt, because he sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with it.

“I’ve been told,” he says quietly. Jimmy always compared the two, perhaps as much envious as he was amused. Claire had counted Cas her best friend, once, for whatever mysterious reason, looked up to him, too.

Cas’s brother had despaired of it, only half-joking; _you know Cas isn’t normal, right, Claire-bear?_

But it’s strange to hear Dean say it, because Cas could never see much of himself in that clever, warmhearted child, playful and brash and unexpectedly shy all at the same time. Maybe he’d projected unfairly, wistful over memories he had no business treasuring in the first place, but the older Claire got, the more she’d do things that would startle him into some poorly-buried memory, sudden and strange, of _Dean._

He can hardly try to explain that now, though.

“So,” Dean begins again. “You . . . do you have a lot of family? Around?”

“Yes,” Cas says, uncertain. “You know that. Eight siblings, remember?”

“No, yeah, but—" Dean bites his lip. “Is that _all_?”

“Well, many of us have grown up and started families of our own?”

Dean slumps.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Cool.”

Cas notices, belatedly, Dean’s half-full ramen cup, the steam long since dissipated, and instantly feels guilty.

“You should eat, Dean. We didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Dean lets out a short laugh.

“My fault for telling her this place was here,” he jokes.

So _that’s_ why Claire wanted to come here.

A suspicion begins to form; ‘classmates’ his ass.

But why the deception?

Unless, of course, she thought Dean might be here; combined with her generally odd behavior and the fact that she promptly left them alone, he’s guessing she didn’t bring them here so _she_ could see Dean.

His stomach sinks. What does Claire know? Or think she knows?

“Have you — mentioned anything more to her? About us?” he asks.

Dean looks at him, eyes unreadable.

“Scared of losing face?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

Dean glances away.

“I didn’t say anything. Believe it or not, I don’t want to make you look like an ass in front of your family.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, and he means it. He doesn’t know exactly how Claire would react, finding out her closest remaining family was less a good role model and more a villain of storybook proportions, but he knows it would make things that much worse for her.

“Of course,” Dean mutters. He’s become considerably more disgruntled since they started talking, and if that’s not a clear sign, Cas doesn’t know what is.

He stands.

“Well. It was — nice, running into you.”

“What?” Dean looks startled. “You’re — Claire’s not back yet.”

Cas tilts his head.

“Yes. I should go check on her.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Dean shrugs awkwardly. “See you.”

And Cas knows he should go, that things are different now, and his expectations must change as well.

But he hesitates, feet firmly planted.

“Will I?”

“What?”

“Will I see you again?”

Dean stares up at him, so very beautiful in _The_ _Rookery’s_ fantastical glow, and it feels like an eternity that Cas waits for an answer he shouldn’t even care about in the first place.

“That depends,” he begins slowly, and Cas braces himself. “Do you _promise_ to watch the last four Harry Potter movies with me?”

_Oh._

“Every last one,” he answers, without hesitation. Dean’s brows lift.

“And you won’t talk during the stupid parts?”

Cas thinks about it.

“You can try and stop me?” he offers, ever the realist.

Dean’s eyes darken.

“Yeah? Can I?”

Oh. Maybe Cas is worse at this than he thought.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” he counters bravely, and Dean smirks.

“I guess you are. Okay, then, Cas; I’ll see you this weekend.”

Cas nods, oddly breathless.

“I’ll be there. Good night, Dean.”

Dean scrutinizes him another second, then smiles, though he almost seems reluctant.

“Night, Cas. You guys drive safe.”

Cas nods and forces himself to walk away.

A few minutes later, he finds Claire curled up in a plush-looking armchair in the loft.

Cas has a clear view of Dean’s table when he stands next to it.

Anyway, she looks up as he approaches, and when she sees him, she actually smiles a little.

“You look happy.”

“That was _incredibly_ awkward, I’ll have you know,” he tells her, though he wonders what’s in his face that gets him slow, sweet smiles from Dean and accusations like this from her.

She blinks innocently.

“I dunno what you mean.”

“Claire,” he says sternly. “What do you think is happening here?”

She stares back, unflinching.

“I don’t know. I just wanted to look at books. Why, _is_ something happening here?”

He scowls.

“Are you ready to go?”

“I _guess,_ ” she says, and he swears he hears her add, “Show’s over, anyway,” under her breath.

Cas lets her get both books, despite the cheek — not that he could have objected; Eileen is at the register, and if Cas thought Charlie’s intense suspicion was bad, Eileen’s bland stare, so utterly devoid of fucks the ceiling could come down on him and she’d probably just shrug, is even worse.

As it is, she doesn’t say a word to him, just smiles kindly and thanks Claire before returning her unimpressed, unblinking gaze to him.

“Do you know her, too?” Claire asks, when they’re in the car.

He sighs.

“She’s a friend of Dean’s and Charlie’s.”

“Oh, so you just know her from company events?”

He shoots her a warning look.

“I thought we agreed to respect my privacy. Like how I don’t force you to talk about school.”

“You still _ask,_ ” she protests.

“That’s true.” Cas nods. “In that case, thank you for asking, Claire. I think I’ll choose not to answer.”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” she complains. “Aren’t you supposed to be the adult here?”

“Yes, well, I’m supposed to be a lot of things,” he mutters, and thankfully, she lets the subject drop.


	18. Part II: you're betting all you got on a broken heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: past attempted Dean/Bela (she hit on him at a party once), more implied tragic-backstory for Bela (again, nothing outright stated, and nothing specific in this case), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> Apologies for the wait, there were Things. Updates may happen slower than I’d have liked, but I’ll do my best, and I hope in the meantime, you are all warm and safe and happy ♡ Thank you so much for reading, and for your many wonderful, wonderful comments. I wish you all a happy end of year, and please enjoy!
> 
> (p.s. Thank you to whoever listed this as one of their favorites (or any of my other stories)! Bold move, favoriting a WIP, but deeply appreciated :D)
> 
> **** Chapters 18 and 19 posted together ****

> _But I can feel the rogue_
> 
> _Inside my veins_
> 
> _The waves that crash the castle we made of sand_
> 
> _Oh, I hope it doesn't show . . ._
> 
> _\- The Fool, Ryn Weaver_

Cas is impatiently sitting through dinner at his mother’s, conscious of Dean waiting with Harry Potter a couple of streets over, when his phone rings.

Hester shoots him a reproving look, but he fishes it out of his pocket, inspecting the screen for the caller anyway.

“Bela?” he murmurs. It’s been a couple of months since they last spoke, Bela preoccupied with operations in Europe and Cas just generally preoccupied, with not much to say, either way.

“Oh, how nice!” Hester exclaims, relaxing slightly. “How is she?”

Cas holds up the still ringing phone.

“I don’t know yet?”

She purses her lips.

“Well, then answer it!”

At this point, Hester would probably be delighted if Bela suddenly expressed an interest, so desperate is she to see Cas settled.

He answers just in time.

“Hello?”

“That took forever, Castiel,” she complains.

“Sorry. I’m at my mother’s.”

“Oh.” She pauses. “Well, tell her I said ‘hello,’ I suppose.”

Cas tips the phone away.

“She says ‘hello.’”

Hester brightens.

“Well, hello back!” Astonishingly friendly, given that the last time she saw Bela, she was scolding them both for that last, unplanned comfort sleepover.

“She says ‘hello,’ as well.” He hesitates. “Should I call you back?”

“Oh, no, sorry. I’ll be quick. I actually just wanted to let you know I’m coming back to Lawrence, for a while. The home office needs an overhaul. You’re still around, I see?”

“I have nowhere else to be.”

“Of course not,” she sighs. “The home office is not, in fact, the only thing that needs . . . _addressing,_ if Gabriel is to be believed.”

“He generally shouldn’t be.”

“I hope that holds true.”

Cas isn’t sure what _that_ means, but he can’t figure it out with everyone looking at him.

“Right. When do you get back?”

“Monday.”

“As in, day-after-tomorrow Monday?”

Hester perks up.

“Castiel!” she whispers urgently. “Tell her to come to Thanksgiving dinner!”

He doubts Bela will want to, but it makes no difference to him.

“My mother wants you to come for Thanksgiving.”

There’s a long pause.

“Oh. Oh, that’s so — kind — but you know, I couldn’t possibly impose—"

“We’d absolutely love to have you,” Cas interjects dryly. “Unless, of course, you had other plans.”

“You _know_ I have not!” she hisses.

“You _can_ come? Great. I’ll let Mom know. We’ll see you next week. Bye, Bela.”

“ _Castiel—"_

He hangs up, trying not to look too smug, lest his mother perceive the insult.

She smiles.

“Wonderful. Bela’s such a nice, accomplished young woman.”

Not really what she said last time, but that’s Hester for you.

She excuses herself to the bathroom, murmuring to herself about room assignments as she goes.

“Bela?” Anna muses, once she’s gone. “That mousy little girl who used to sneak into your room?”

Next to her, Claire’s head snaps up.

“You always swore to Dad you guys weren’t like that!” she protests, disbelieving.

“They weren’t. She just liked to sleep next to someone, I guess,” Anna clarifies.

Cas stares at her.

“You _knew_?” He’s not sure which shocks him more; hearing Bela referred to as a ‘mousy little girl’ or finding out his older sister had known about the sleepovers the whole time.

The latter, probably.

“Uh, duh. I pay attention.” Next to her, Val screws up her face, but says nothing. “And even if I didn’t — Jimmy told me about it, because he wasn’t sure whether he should tell Mom and Dad.”

“And you told him . . .?”

“No? Because you guys were friends, and there was nothing weird happening. The whole reason we don’t do co-ed sleepovers after a certain age is because _weird things._ But there weren’t any, ergo — whatever.”

She shrugs and starts eating again.

Claire squints at Cas.

“There weren’t, right? She’s not going to come back to town and—" She hesitates. “Make things weird?”

“No,” he says slowly. “Bela is just a friend.”

“You also kept saying your new boyfriend was just a friend,” she points out, and he sets his jaw.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Then why are you guys having another date tonight?”

“What?” Anna sets down her fork. “You’re seeing Dean again? I thought he stopped calling.”

Cas shuts his eyes.

“Huh. Your boyfriend’s name is Dean? Interesting,” Claire snarks, sounding utterly unsurprised, and his eyes fly open.

“How long have you known?”

“Actually _known_ ? Just since we saw him at _The Rookery_ . Especially since you suddenly had a date again. You know, you could have _told_ me you were dating my teacher.”

Despite her words, Claire sounds suspiciously unperturbed by the situation.

“I couldn’t have, because I didn’t know. How long have you suspected, then?”

“Since you came to the school. Well, maybe — but anyways. You both suck at lying, by the way.”

He sighs. Of course.

“Listen, Claire—" he begins, but she holds up a hand.

“Save it. You’re an adult. Do whatever you want.”

The words are harsh, but — she doesn’t really sound angry.

“Dean is still your friend,” he tries anyway, and hopes he’s not wrong, about any of this. “He would never treat you differently, just because he and I are — friends.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Whatever. I’m not worried about that.”

“What _are_ you worried about?” Valencia suddenly interjects, and Claire looks startled for a moment, glancing quickly at Cas.

“Nothing. Just — go on your date.”

“It’s not—"

“Admit it’s a date, and try not to be this lame once you’re on it, okay?”

Cas blinks.

Is Claire — is she giving him _advice_? Sort of?

Anna had said she’d seemed to be coming around, but . . . he can’t help himself. It’s a surprise.

“Okay, I’ll — do that.”

“Whatever,” she mumbles, oblivious to Val’s considering look, and a second later, Hester comes back in, chattering enthusiastically about Thanksgiving.

“It’s a shame so many of you can’t make it this year,” she sighs. “I hate having to compete with in-laws. But your friend Bela is coming, so the house won’t be quite so empty.”

Cas hopes Bela ends up on the trundle; she’ll probably be too indignant to sleep.

“I wonder how much dessert I should make . . .”

Suppressing a sigh, Cas discreetly glances at his watch. Twenty more minutes, and he can excuse himself to Dean’s.

And fine, he’s still uncertain about where things stand, exactly, but he can’t help it.

He’s pitifully excited to find out.

It’s drizzling lightly by the time six-thirty rolls around, and Dean opens the door to find Cas a little damp from the walk up, shoulders hunched from the chill.

“Shit, man, get in here,” he gripes, barely giving it a thought before he firmly tugs Cas inside and starts stripping off his coat. Cas isn’t especially helpful, either, just stands there, watching as Dean wrestles it free of his shoulders and arms and throws it on a hook.

“Thank you,” he eventually says, still staring.

Dean stares back for a few seconds, face suddenly hot.

“Well,” he starts gruffly, and jerks his head toward the sofa. “Have a seat. I’ll grab us some beers.”

Still, Cas’s gaze lingers, and Dean can’t even object, because he knows he’s doing the same. Seeing Cas at _The_ _Rookery_ was like a shock to the system after weeks of nothing, and Dean’s not stupid enough to imagine the encounter was anything but a complete fucking mess as a result.

(So par for the course, basically.)

But shit — the way Cas had looked, asking if he’d see Dean again — there’s still a chance Cas might be married, or even has more kids, but Dean just — he couldn’t say no.

He’s come this far, right? It’s not like Cas has a ring on, so — Dean doesn’t _know._ And yeah, okay, Claire makes things a little awkward, but his students tend to move on and forget all about him, anyway, and it’s not like he’ll start treating _her_ any different; it’s hardly going to scar her or anything, is it?

Anyway, the longer he goes without seeing Cas, the more taken aback he is by just how fucking beautiful the guy happens to be.

Like right now, for instance. There’s stray droplets of rain on his cheeks, and his eyes are stark against skin turned pale from the cold (and who knows, maybe too much time indoors). All the features their peers found irresistible in high school have only grown more pronounced over the years, and even that persistent, worn-out look he tends to sport now has the nerve to be kind of . . . well, _endearing_.

And fine, if Dean’s really being honest — he’s been lonely. There haven’t been any texts here and there throughout the week, and there’s been no one to sit beside, no one to watch as they watch the movie — no one to try his damndest to _distract_ from said movie. It’s unfair, but the weeks apart have been a painful reminder of exactly how Cas had managed to get Dean in his clutches in the first place, way back when.

Because if Cas wasn’t a horrible person — he’d probably be Dean’s best friend.

And fuck, Dean wants his revenge so bad he can almost taste it, but he’s disturbingly aware that that’s not the _only_ reason he’s glad to see Cas standing in his foyer tonight.

“Come on.” He looks away, heading for the kitchen. He’s still not totally sure where or how to proceed from here, but he can’t keep falling to pieces every time he sees Cas. Things were going _great_ before the whole Claire issue came up, and Dean needs to get back there; he can’t afford to be unsure, especially when for all he knows, the last few weeks have just given Cas the time he needs to cool off and get his head screwed on straight.

Assuming it was ever really crooked. After all, Dean still can’t be sure why Cas lied.

Even so — he knows how Cas looked at him, asking if he’d see Dean again, and it’s hard not to believe what he saw there.

Or what he’s seeing now, Cas waiting quietly for him somewhere near the center of the sofa. Cas accepts the beer with soft thanks, still watching Dean, still looking like he’s waiting for something.

What, though? Dean doesn’t know, and he’s afraid it might drive him crazy trying to figure it out.

He takes a chance, sitting close, and starts the movie.

He can tell neither one of them are able to focus on it. Cas, the fucker, keeps stealing glances at him, and Dean’s not really sure how to interpret any of them. After experimentally shifting closer, pretending to be super absorbed in the Yule Ball, and hearing the unmistakable hitch in breath from Cas, however—

He decides his fears that absence makes the heart go wander were probably unfounded.

Beside him, Cas fidgets, gaze carefully focused front, and runs a hand through his hair.

Dean itches to do the same.

So he does.

Cas freezes, looking to Dean with wide eyes. Dean manages to keep a straight face — he thinks — but it’s been a while, and somehow things feel different now, his heart pounding away like a jackhammer as he pushes his hand through dark, unruly locks, thumb resting against Cas’s hairline.

“You finally got it cut.”

He’d teased Cas before, but — it feels weirdly intimate this time, when it hadn’t, then.

Cas takes a deep breath.

“Well. I had to find _something_ to do with myself.”

It’s ridiculous, like the sudden absence of their movie dates had any impact on Cas’s free time at all, but Dean feels guilty anyway.

“I missed you.”

And at first, he thinks the soft admission comes from Cas, but blue eyes go wide, and Dean realizes it was _him._ He starts to draw back his hand, scrambling to figure out what he’d hoped to achieve with this, to recall his strategy, but Cas’s next words stop him short.

“You didn’t have to.”

It’s Dean’s turn to stare dumbly. His hand, instead of withdrawing, falls to settle on Cas’s jaw.

Cas just closes his eyes, leaning into the touch, and _fuck it._ Maybe it wasn’t planned, but Dean’s _sure_ it’s a good idea; possibly the best one he’s ever had, he decides, leaning close and relishing the feel of Cas’s warm breath, a string of soft puffs against his lips, Cas’s stupid sexy cologne and achingly familiar scent filling his nostrils, and fuck, _yes_ , just a little more, until _finally_ —

A strangled noise erupts from behind them, and Dean flings himself back, Cas’s stubble dragging across his palm as he takes his hand with him. Cas falls forward a little, blinking in confusion.

Behind the sofa, Sam is staring at them in abject horror.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Dean curses, scrambling to his feet. “I thought you weren’t coming home till Tuesday!”

Sam gapes.

“Yeah, but I — I decided to surprise you, and — and what the hell is _he_ doing here?”

Cas’s gaze drops, cheeks crimson.

“What does it _look_ like he’s doing here?” Dean snaps, then hurries on before Sam can comment on what he walked in on and potentially ruin everything. “We’re just watching Harry Potter.”

“Sure you were,” Sam says flatly, still glaring at Cas. “Silly me.”

Abruptly, Cas stands.

“I, um — I should probably go.”

“Yeah, I think that’d be for the best,” Sam agrees, just as Dean exclaims, “No!”

Cas bites his lip — which, god _damn_ it, Sammy, that’s what _Dean_ is supposed to be doing right now — and throws Dean an apologetic look.

“Uh, Sam’s gone through the trouble to surprise you, so — I really — thank you for the beer,” he finishes quickly, rounding the sofa and uneasily skirting past Sam to grab his coat. Dean watches him go, intensely frustrated. Of all the shit timing—

“I’ll text you!” he calls after Cas, who’s stuffing his arms into his coat with an uncharacteristic lack of grace.

“Yes. Alright. Good night, Dean. Sam.”

And then he’s gone.

Dean whirls to face his brother. Any other time, he’d be fucking ecstatic, but tonight, of all nights—

“What the _hell,_ Sammy?”

“Dude, that’s what I should be asking _you_ !” Sam exclaims. “What are you _doing_ ? I know you haven’t forgotten what he did to you, and yet he comes back to town and you — what? Welcome him with open arms? You know people don’t change, right? Not enough. He’s a lying, manipulative _dick_ , and whatever he’s telling you—"

“He’s _not_!” Dean practically shouts, then shoots a worried glance toward the door, lowering his voice. “Sam — it’s not what it looked like.”

“Dean, it looked like you were making out on the sofa.”

“Well, we _weren’t_. We were — talking about his hair.” He clears his throat. “ _Anyway —_ Cas — I know _,_ okay? I know he hasn’t changed, and I promise you, he’s not telling me anything. I’m the one seducing _him_ this time, alright?”

Sam stares at him like he just announced his plans to be a deep sea astronaut; like there’s so many things wrong with what Dean just said that he has no idea where to even begin.

“Why the _hell_ are you doing that?” he finally sputters, and Dean huffs.

“Isn’t it obvious? He deserves a taste of his own medicine!”

“You — you’re kidding, right? Dean — don’t you think you’ve wasted enough time on him?”

“Yeah! More than enough! Why else would I _do_ this?”

Sam shakes his head.

“Listen, I get where you’re coming from, I do, and I hate him almost as much as you do, but — this is a _terrible_ idea.”

“Why?” Dean demands. “You don’t think I can do it?”

One of Sam’s hands moves to his face, though Dean can still make out the constipated look underneath.

“It’s not — Dean, just—" Sam stops, taking a breath. “Actually — you know what? No. No, I don’t think you can.”

“Jesus, tell me how you really feel.”

Sam rolls his eyes.

“Shut up, man. Yeah, I’m sure you can get Cas to fall into bed with you. _Obviously_ ,” he adds, gesturing to the sofa. “But that doesn’t mean anything to people like Cas.”

“No — look, I’ve got a plan, okay? And he’s falling for it, I swear to you. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think I could.”

“Yeah? And what about you, Dean?”

“What about me?” Dean asks, baffled. “I finally fucking move on.”

Sam purses his lips.

“ _Do_ you?”

“Uh, yeah? Seriously, what is that even supposed to mean?”

“You really think you can — fake a relationship, with _Cas,_ and just walk away?”

Dean immediately scowls at the implication.

“Why _wouldn’t_ I be able to?”

“Because it’s _Cas._ ”

Sam says it like that’s somehow supposed to mean something.

“Well, Sam, the answer’s still ‘yes.’ I do think I can. I _know_ I can, _because_ it’s Cas.”

Sam just looks at him.

“ _Dude,_ it’ll be fine. Just — let me do my thing, okay?”

“Dean.”

“ _Sam._ ” Dean sighs. “Come on, man. Just — forget about Cas, okay? You’re _home._ Are we gonna hug or what?”

The bitch face doesn’t fade, but Sam does shuffle over to collect his hug, albeit reluctantly.

“For the record, I still think this is a terrible idea.”

“I kinda got that, Sam.”

“I’m just _saying._ ”

Dean breaks the hug, giving him a playful shove.

“Well, then shut up for now. I bet you haven’t eaten yet.”

Sam gives him another Look, but shakes his head.

“No.”

“Okay, then come on. Let’s go. I bet Ellen and Jo wanna see you.”

Dean shuts off the TV and goes for his coat, leaving no room for argument.

He’s glad Sam’s home — really — but it would have been nice if he’d waited even one more hour to show up.

Dean shivers as they step outside, unable to stop himself from wondering where another hour would have left them.

When Sam asks, he pretends he’s cold.

Anyway, Dean’s mostly saved from Sam’s questions/passive aggressive _judgment_ by the crowd at the Roadhouse, who happily provide his little brother with the homecoming reception Dean probably should have given him. It gives him a chance to text Cas, apologizing for the interruption (to _Goblet of Fire_ ) and asking to make it up to him with lunch Wednesday afternoon, when he has almost twice as much time because of the block day.

Cas’s response takes a worryingly long time, but when it comes, it makes Dean smile.

_As always, you can try._

They have a pretty good time, catching up on things and playing around with Ash and Jo throughout the night. Dean’s horrified to find that Ellen serves _veggie_ burgers now, and tries not to take it personally when Sam asks for one.

“Dude, do you even _know_ what’s in that?”

Sam somehow manages to look even less impressed than he had when he first walked into the living room earlier.

“Probably better than you know what’s in _that._ ”

“Uh, I know what’s in this. Cow _._ ”

“You _think._ ”

Sammy’s a bitch, but it’s still really nice to have him home.

He crashes pretty much as soon as they get back to the house, having flown out right after his last exam and barely slept the night before, and Dean hopes (futilely) that he’ll have forgotten the whole Cas issue by the morning, or maybe just chalk it up to a sleepless hallucination.

And Sam does, very politely, let Dean have the morning to relax, but then he brings it up at lunch.

“So — and I’m not trying to pick a fight here—"

“Here we go,” Dean mutters, not really surprised, and takes a massive bite of his sandwich.

“You said you had a plan.” Sam pauses. “What exactly _is_ your plan?”

Dean chews thoroughly, taking his time, but Sam doesn’t seem bothered. He pops the lid off his salad, setting the dressing aside ( _seriously_?) and waits.

They’re at the park, since it’s a rare, nice day for November, and they were even lucky enough to snag a picnic table so Sam could commune with nature or whatever while he ate, though it seems like a lot of people are trying to take advantage of the beautiful Sunday afternoon.

“Well. You know. Pretty much the same thing he did.”

“Yeah, but . . . honestly, no offense, but you were _sixteen_. He can’t really have changed enough for any of that to work.”

Dean frowns.

“Hey, you’d be surprised. He’s even falling for the old let’s-watch-Harry-Potter trick.”

Sam nods, nibbling at a slice of cucumber so primly Dean kind of wonders if he’s being trolled right now.

“Right. But — have you maybe considered that, um, _you_ might be the one falling for it?”

Dean scowls.

“I told you. I’m completely in control here.”

Sam just sighs in this special way that makes Dean kinda want to slap him, public place or not.

“Alright. Then . . . tell me about it, since you haven’t been. What’s he even like, now, anyway?”

And that — that’s the other thing. Obviously, Cas is the same person he always was, deep down, but — a lot of the superficial shit has changed, you know?

(Well, and also he’s a _father._ )

“He’s . . . he’s — you know, um.” Dean tries to come up with a way to describe him that isn’t _disturbingly adorable_ or _kinda sad sometimes, but still hilarious_ or _a sassy little_ _shit_ because those all make Dean sound — wrongly — a little less in control of the situation.

Not to mention he’d have said all those things eleven years ago, too.

Sam is narrowing his eyes, suspicion clear, and Dean quickly shrugs.

“Less wild?” he finally settles on. “More . . . tired.”

Sam opens his mouth, then shuts it, thinking.

“Okay. And how’s that been working out? Actually, what have you even been doing with him, anyways? You know, since you’re _not_ making out on the sofa while you watch movies together.”

Dean coughs.

“Uh. Mostly, I’ve just been — being his friend. While flaunting my fine ass right in front of him, of course. You remember how he did it.

“Gross,” Sam says kindly, then sets down his salad fork. “But, Dean — and again, I’m not trying to start anything — what’s _his_ motive here? I don’t remember him being stupid. He has to know what you’re trying to do.”

“That’s why I waited to really _try_ anything. Honestly, I have no idea why he was so quick to give me a shot, but I swear to you — he’s invested now.” Dean smirks, a little proud, among other things. “Couldn’t help himself.”

Sam frowns.

“But doesn’t that seem . . . too easy?”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Dean protests. “Dude, you haven’t been here the last three months. It was _not_ fucking _easy._ It’s been two steps forward, one step back the whole way.”

And maybe that was because of the giant chip on Dean’s shoulder, as much as anything else, but Sam deserves to go on thinking his big brother is a true master of seduction and romantic finesse, and Dean doesn’t want to get in the way of that.

“And that didn’t seem like, I don’t know, a _sign_ to you?”

“Sam,” he says, sharp. “I _deserve_ this. I’ve been _waiting_ for this.”

Sam makes a face, like he wants to say something, but then he seems to change his mind.

“Okay, fine. But if you’re so anxious for revenge, then why are you taking months to do it?”

Dean slumps.

“Like I said. Two steps forward, one step back. Not that it’s not better this way; dude took like, half a year just to fuck me up. But yeah.” He sighs. “There’ve been some bumps along the way.”

It’s almost comical, how concerned Sam looks.

“Like — like what kind of bumps?”

“Just – bumps. Like you said, he knew what I was about, at first, and then I kept accidentally being a dick since, you know, I actually hate him.”

If anything, Sam relaxes.

“Ah. Well, that’s understandable.”

Dean nods, drumming his fingers against the picnic table.

“And — he _has_ changed, a little. I took him on some shitty dates, ‘cause I didn’t get that.”

“Dates?” Sam’s brows pinch together. “I thought you said you were being his friend.”

Dean waves a hand.

“Fine, hangouts. Anyway. And, uh, a few weeks ago, I kind of, uh, found out my favorite student is his daughter? So that was kinda . . . but anyw—"

Sam chokes on a piece of romaine.

“ _Sorry_?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, apparently he’s got a kid? Claire, she’s in my eighth grade English class.”

Sam just stares.

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned her, but — but Cas has a _kid_?”

Maybe more than one, Dean’s not sure, but there’s no need to tell Sam what he himself doesn’t even know.

“Sure does. Honestly, I felt a little weird about it, so — last night was the first time I’d had him over, since then.”

Sam also probably doesn’t need to know that that only even happened because Dean had melted for big, sad blue eyes at _T_ _he_ _Rookery_ first.

“Yeah. That’s — yeah. _Jesus._ ” He stares at his salad, and then his brows go up. “Wait — _eighth_ grade? That would mean she was—"

“Yep,” Dean mutters, and Sam’s expression darkens.

“That _asshole._ ”

“C’mon, man, that’s not really — I mean, I get the idea he didn’t exactly know about her then.”

“Right, sure he didn’t.” Sam sniffs. “What happened to her mom?”

At that, Dean takes a careful bite of sandwich and then, just as carefully, chews it.

“I’m . . . not sure,” he admits, once he’s finished.

Sam goes still.

“Like . . . not sure how she _died_ or not sure because you don’t know anything at all?”

Dean shrugs, smiling weakly.

“I, uh, didn’t wanna pry?”

“Dean!”

“Look, I was still trying to process the whole daughter thing!”

“Yeah, and that’s another thing! He lied to you about having a _child_! Please tell me you at least know he’s not married.”

Dean looks away guiltily, because technically, he doesn’t know that, and he hasn’t forgotten the cute brunette from Halloween, either.

Which is funny, actually, because if he didn’t know any better, he’d say she was walking toward them right now.

And then he sees Claire at her side, ice cream cone in hand, and okay, yeah, so maybe she is.

He suddenly feels sick.

“Shit. I think that might be his wife,” he whispers, and then jumps to his feet. “I gotta hit the head.”

“ _Wife_? Wait — Dean, what the _hell_ —"

Dean just flees to the restroom, like a coward.

He stays in there a good fifteen minutes, just to be sure, because he _knows_ Sammy was probably all, “Oh, he’ll just be right back, please, have a seat,” once they made their way over, because Dean’s little brother is a well-mannered dick like that.

Fortunately, they’re gone when he gets out, but as soon as Dean gets close enough, he notices Sam looks . . . _weird._

“What’s up, man?” he asks, cautious, and his brother starts.

“Oh. Hey.” Sam frowns. “Dude, you took forever.”

“Of course I did, I was _hiding._ How’d it go?”

Sam blinks.

“Uh. Fine?”

Dean arches a brow.

“ _And_?”

“And . . . Cas’s wife is pretty cool,” he says slowly, then hastily adds. “And Claire seems really nice.”

Dean deflates. Cas’s wife. Cas’s fucking _wife._

“So he’s married.”

It makes that thing on the sofa last night really fucking sketchy. For the both of them.

But hey — good to know Cas is still _awful_.

“Well . . .” Sam looks disappointed, too. “She didn’t _say_ that, just — introduced herself as Valencia and said she was taking Claire out for ice cream and frisbee. That’s — I mean, that sounds kinda Mom-ish, don’t you think?”

“Not like we would know,” Dean shoots back, grumpy, and Sam winces.

“Well, even if she’s not her mother . . . like, wouldn’t she have said, if she was an Aunt? She’s, um, she’s probably _something_ to Cas.”

“Damn it.” Dean jerks a hand through his hair, disappointment souring to anger. “Son of a bitch. He lied on purpose, didn’t he? He’s not stupid, he knows what I’m doing here, so — so what? He’s just waiting until I make my move so he can hide behind his wife and kid and make me look like an ass?”

“It’s possible,” Sam agrees, morose.

“Well, fuck him. I shouldn’t waste any more time on this. _God_ , he’s even more of a dick than we thought.”

Sam nods fervently, some life re-entering his eyes.

“Yeah — I mean, actually, I feel like I already knew how much of a dick he was?”

“Shut up, Sammy.”

“Right.”

Dean takes a huge, vicious bite of sandwich, and they eat in silence.

And then:

“Maybe she’s not really a _serious_ girlfriend,” he suggests, unable to help himself.

Sam, for his part, just sighs and says nothing.

_> > Where are you?_

Cas squints at his phone. Was he supposed to pick Bela up from the airport? He doesn’t remember her saying so (not to mention she generally travels by luxury vehicle, complete with chauffeur).

_< < At my sister’s house?_

_ >> ? Address, Castiel._

He texts it to her, baffled. His sister is in the kitchen with Valencia and Claire, presiding over the assembly of a chocolate cake they intend to take to dinner on Thursday. Cas had reminded them that Hester would be making half-a-dozen different pies, only to be exiled from the kitchen for treason.

He pokes his head around the doorway, half-expecting to be hit with some projectile baking ingredient.

“Uh, I’m not sure, but — Bela might be coming here in a few minutes.”

Anna pauses, unhooking her chin from Valencia’s shoulder, over which she’d been inspecting the batter.

“Can she bake?”

Aside from a dedicated gymnastics background, Cas doesn’t recall Bela having a lot of practical skills.

“Uh. Maybe? She has a very refined palate?”

His sister nods.

“Fine. Send her in when she gets here.”

And with that, she returns to their task. Cas isn’t sure how Bela will feel about these instructions, but they can probably sort it out.

The bell rings about ten minutes later, and there she is, hair darker than he remembers, though flawlessly blended highlights and lowlights shine throughout. She hands him her heavy wool peacoat without prompting, smoothing the simple silk blouse where it tucks into expensive-looking, high-waisted jeans.

He supposes she must have dressed down for him.

“Hello, Bela,” he greets her. She hasn’t really aged much since he saw her a few years ago, but her features have sharpened, he thinks, emphasizing the cat-like shape of her eyes.

“Castiel.” She eyes him critically. “Have you _slept_ since I last saw you? Or does child-rearing simply drain one’s life force, beginning with their face?”

He sighs.

“Thank you, you look beautiful as well.”

She smiles, and then her face softens, and to his surprise, she steps forward and puts her arms around him.

After a moment, she gives him a squeeze.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it for his funeral,” she whispers. “I’m deeply sorry for your losses.”

Cas blinks away the sudden sting in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says, and squeezes her back.

It’s a nice moment. They’re both odd people, and their friendship is accordingly strange, but Bela is his oldest friend and he’s missed her more than he realized.

She releases him, stepping back and straightening her shirt again, and before anything else can be said, someone clears their throat.

He finds Claire watching them from the doorway, eyes narrowed.

“Oh, Claire.” He wipes his eyes discreetly. “This is Bela. Bela, this is my niece.”

Bela steps forward, hesitating before offering a hand. Cas used to try and invite her to help him babysit in high school, but she emphatically declined every time. He’s suspected, for a long time, that a part of her might legitimately be afraid of children.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Claire,” she says, uncharacteristically awkward.

Claire frowns at the proffered hand before reluctantly shaking.

“Yeah. I’ve heard of you.”

Bela arches one perfect brow.

“How flattering, Castiel.”

Honestly, Cas is puzzled by Claire’s behavior, and certainly by the way she’s now outright glowering at the pair of them, but disliking new people seems to be a trend with her, lately.

He throws Bela an apologetic look, though she seems more amused than anything.

“So.” He clears his throat. “Did you come here straight from the airport?”

Bela laughs.

“Don’t be absurd, I’ve had a shower and a full night’s sleep first.”

“But you said you were flying in today.”

“Of course I did. I was hardly going to risk anyone _expecting_ anything from me right after a twelve-hour flight.” She narrows her eyes. “Although I was _not_ clever enough to avoid being press-ganged into dinner attendance Thursday.”

He shrugs, gesturing calmly to the hall.

“No one is perfect. Speaking of impressment — they’re making a chocolate cake. Shall we?”

She gives him a look.

“I take back what I said about missing you.”

“You didn’t say anything like that, so that’s fine.”

He heads for the kitchen, not missing Claire’s unhappy face, but not at all sure what to do about it.

“Anna, Valencia, this is Bela.”

“Hi, Bela,” Val greets her, striding across the kitchen and thrusting a bowl scraper in her face, batter clinging to the end. “Does this taste right?”

Bela blinks, then learns forward to gingerly lick it off.

She considers for a moment.

“If this is the chocolate cake, then yes.”

“Told you,” Valencia calls over her shoulder, thanking Bela and sticking the remaining batter in her mouth.

“You had better hope I didn’t catch anything from that airplane,” Bela remarks, and Cas’s sister laughs.

“Please, I’ve never seen her sick in the eight years I’ve known her. And anyways, I still think it needs more cocoa powder.”

“If you want it to be a dark chocolate cake,” Bela answers, before Valencia has a chance. Anna stops, then turns fully, narrowing her eyes.

“Well, maybe I do.”

“I don’t,” Val chimes in.

Anna ignores her.

“Bela, huh,” she finally says. “You’ve changed a lot since the last time I saw you.”

“Likewise.”

Anna gives her a suspicious look.

“What does that mean?”

“You first,” Bela returns archly.

“All _I_ was saying was that you aren’t a scrawny twelve-year-old anymore.”

“And I was noticing that _you_ were no longer a cranky teenage ginger. Or at least — you’re not a teenager.”

Anna purses her lips, although Cas swears he sees her lips twitch.

“You realize this is my house, right?”

“It is lovely,” Bela acknowledges, seemingly sincere despite her snark, and Anna blinks.

“Right. Thanks.”

“And you make an excellent chocolate cake batter, as well.”

“ _I_ make an excellent chocolate cake batter,” Valencia mutters, but Anna just shrugs.

“It’s even better baked,” she informs Bela modestly, and Bela moves to lean against the counter, eyeing her with curiosity.

“Is it? I don’t suppose I’ll get to taste for myself?”

Anna turns contemplative.

“Are you sucking up to me right now because you want cake?”

Bela shrugs.

“Is it working?”

“Huh. Honestly, it would be, but I’m taking this to my mom’s for Thanksgiving.”

“How serendipitous. I, also, am being taken to your mother’s for Thanksgiving. I suppose I can wait.”

Anna’s brows shoot up.

“You’re — Cas, you didn’t tell me you were bringing anyone!”

“It was very last-minute,” he explains, though he’s vaguely disconcerted by the atmosphere in the room.

“So, what, you’re bringing _her,_ but not your boyfriend?”

Bela straightens.

“I’m sorry, what’s this about a boyfriend?”

“He has a boyfriend,” Claire quickly confirms, sounding almost — _smug._

Bela’s eyes fly to his.

“Oh, God. I’m too late.”

“Yup,” Claire says cheerfully, while the rest of them go, “What?”

“ _Castiel,_ ” Bela implores, coming to rest her hands on his shoulders. “Please, _please_ tell me Gabriel was simply being a fanciful little gremlin and you have not _actually_ become ensnared by Dean Winchester’s dubious country-boy wiles?”

Cas flushes bright red, and to his right, Valencia groans.

“Listen, you assholes, there’s plenty of supporting evidence that curiosity _can_ be lethal, just so you know.”

“You’re not a cat,” he mutters, and Bela gives him an impatient shake.

“ _Cas._ I know his swan-like transformation is as compelling as it is shocking, but you _know_ nothing good can come of this, don’t you?”

“Why not?” Anna asks, sounding very put out.

“I’m aware,” Cas answers tersely, ignoring his sister. “He’s really not my boyfriend, and — wait. You’ve seen him? Recently?”

Bela blinks, withdrawing her hands and awkwardly clearing her throat.

“Ahem. Yes, well. I was in town for a charity fundraiser a few years back, benefiting the schools.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Because you become stricken with waifish despondence at his mere mention. It’s very off-putting. And, also,” she continues, smoothing her hair back. “He may have rudely turned down my proposal to keep one another company for the night. You can hardly blame me for wanting to keep mum.”

Cas gapes at her, and he’s pretty sure he’s not the only one.

“Seriously? Bela, you tried to — you would have—" He cuts off, too appalled to finish the sentence, but she just shrugs, unself-conscious.

“What? He’s very pretty.”

“Cas has a strict exes policy,” Anna informs her helpfully, a little regret in her tone.

“That’s _ridiculous,_ ” Bela protests. “You only dated him for that stupid bet!”

The kitchen falls dead silent at that, though Cas primarily just wishes he’d fall dead, period.

Surprisingly, Claire’s the first to find her voice.

“ _What_?” She looks between them, anxious. “Cas, what is she talking about?”

Bela’s eyes widen, and she bites her lip, glancing back at him.

“Oh, God, Cas. I’m so sorry. I assumed . . .”

Cas holds up a hand.

“Dean and I don’t have a great history and it’s entirely my fault. That’s all I’m going to say on the subject.”

“No — don’t say that,” Bela insists, looking to the rest of them. “It was Crowley and me, really. We took terrible advantage—"

“You didn’t. I was old enough to make my own choices.”

“Cas,” Anna says, sounding strangled. “You know I hate to pry—"

“I know no such thing.”

“But _maybe_ a little back story would help here? Maybe?”

At last, he glances over, and finds his sister looking vaguely horrified. Next to her, Val is much calmer, regarding him with curious eyes.

Claire — well, Claire looks devastated.

He could refuse to speak, could even just leave the room, like he so desperately wants to, but Claire will probably assume the worst either way. In light of that — she deserves the truth, he supposes.

He sighs.

“In my last year of school, we . . . made a bet. Dean’s father was a well-respected football coach, also known for his homophobia, and my friends bet that I couldn’t get Dean to fall in love with me.”

“It was so much money,” Bela tacks on hurriedly. “Your parents wouldn’t even give him lunch money, and he wouldn’t accept anything more than food scraps from the rest of us. He really couldn’t refuse this—"

“ _Bela._ It’s fine. Honestly, even without the money, I didn’t think it was a big deal when I agreed.”

“So — so what?” Claire demands. “You — did you _do it_?”

Cas shrugs.

“Maybe. We did start dating, but I never found out. He overheard us talking one day, and — that was that.”

The silence is deafening, until Valencia breaks it.

“Sooo . . . _that_ would be why the skinny jeans live in the closet.”

Claire turns and storms out of the room.

He doesn’t bother trying to stop her.

“Basically. I went off to college, spent most of my first year trying to drown out the guilt —" _and the longing_ “—until I realized it wasn’t working.”

“And when you came to stay with me, and finish at SUNY . . .”

He smiles bleakly at his sister.

“I was running away. Dean — he would have started that year.”

“Cas — he wasn’t even your age?”

“He turned sixteen while we were dating,” Cas confirms quietly.

In a rare gesture of kindness, Bela puts a hand on his back.

“I’m — so sorry, Cas. I didn’t even think.”

“It was bound to come up. Dean and I do see each other, now.”

Bela’s guilt morphs to worry.

“Later,” he pleads, and she nods, stepping back.

Anna and Val are watching them, though Anna looks like she just found out Darth Vader was her father.

(Claire probably _feels_ like it.)

“That . . . really wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“Me either,” Valencia agrees. “I guess I learned something new about both of you today.”

“What?” Anna looks at her, but Valencia must not have heard her.

“Anyway, you and Cas should start dinner while I finish the cake.”

“What?” Anna repeats, but is ignored.

“What should I do?” Bela asks, clearly reluctant to do anything, but feeling obligated to offer. “Or — should I go?”

“Oh, it’s okay. You can wait in the living room. Watch TV, read a magazine, etc. You should eat with us. We have plenty of awkward to go around,” Anna adds with a sigh.

“Alright. I suppose I’ll do that, then. Thank you.”

Bela slips out, and a moment later, Anna steps forward to give Cas a hug.

“Claire’s right, you know,” she sighs, squeezing him. “You can be an _idiot,_ sometimes.”

Claire is — not _sulking,_ but processing, maybe — in the living room when Bela wanders in, staring at her phone.

She jumps when she looks up to see Claire curled up on the sofa.

“For heaven’s sake,” she mutters, smoothing her blouse. It doesn’t look like a very practical shirt, Claire thinks. She bets it’s constantly getting wrinkled. “You’re a quiet thing, aren’t you?”

Claire shrugs. She’s still on the fence about Bela. On the one hand, some of Cas’s stories made her sound a little mean, though he says you have to get to know her. On the other hand, she’s also always sounded cool and funny, and she’s Cas’s best friend, sort of, so she probably isn’t _all_ bad.

It helps that Claire’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to date Cas, although she worried, seeing how pretty Bela was and how they were doing that silent-communication thing.

Not to mention _hugging._

(Maybe she should make sure.)

“You and Cas definitely never dated, right?”

Bela’s brows go up.

“I see bluntness runs in the family.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Well, the answer is ‘no _.’_ That would be a bit _gross._ ”

“Hey — he’s not gross,” Claire objects, because even if he’s a doof, Cas is a handsome doof. And he’s pretty nice and funny, when he’s not sad.

“Not at all, but us dating absolutely would be. I’ve known him most of my life. He’s probably the nearest thing I have to family,” she admits, and Claire relaxes.

Only for a second, though, because even if Bela’s not after him, Cas and Mr. W — or Dean — still have their stupid _history._

And she knew they had history, had had her suspicions confirmed at The Rookery, but — but she _never_ thought it was something like this. Honestly, she was pretty sure they’d either dated and only broken up because of college or something, or had been too blind and chicken to even reach the dating stage and then just fallen out of contact. Both easily fixed, right?

But this . . .

How could Cas _do_ something like that? To _Mr. W_?

“Oh, stop pouting. You’re too old for that.”

“Hey,” Claire snaps. “I’m not pouting.”

“Sulking, then.”

“I’m not—"

“Darling, I can practically _hear_ you thinking, “woe is me, I feel so betrayed,” from here.”

Claire glares, a little shocked, if she’s being honest.

“That’s not what I was thinking,” she retorts, cheeks hot. “And I have every reason to sulk, if I want.”

“Oh, my apologies. Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“What? _No._ ” This chick is so _rude._ And Claire hates people feeling sorry for her, but mostly anyone who knows her situation tries to be way nicer than _this._

“Hm. You know, my parents are both dead, too. When I was about your age.”

Which — Claire’s anger settles, a little. Bela’s still being nasty, but — well. Claire knows firsthand how much _that_ sucks.

Oh, God. Maybe that’s why Bela’s like this. Maybe Claire’s going to be bitchy and weird when she’s older, too.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” she says. She knows it doesn’t help, doesn’t mean anything, but — she _is_ sorry.

Maybe that’s why people keep saying it to her.

“I’m not.”

At that, Claire’s jaw pretty much drops, but she recovers quickly.

Seriously, though — what kind of parents did Bela _have_?

“Then — I guess I’m even more sorry for you.”

Bela studies her for a moment, then nods.

“Well, I’m not sorry for _you_.”

“ _What_? Why not?” Claire’s tempted to point out that she had _nice_ parents, ones who actually _loved_ her, but that seems like it might be going too far.

“Because _you_ have an uncle like Cas left over. And he might let you down — probably without meaning to — but he’d never hurt you or abandon you.”

Claire fidgets for a few seconds, speechless, then instinctively grabs a throw pillow, hugging it to her chest.

“You don’t know that.”

“I’d bet my _considerable_ fortune on it,” Bela retorts, and sighs. “Claire — that thing, in high school.”

Claire glowers at the edge of the pillow.

“What about it?” she snaps, though part of her is dying to ask more questions. She still can’t believe that’s the whole story. Cas just — he’s not _like_ that.

He can’t be.

“I — I’ve done a lot of things I should probably regret, or feel guilt over. Things many people would consider far worse than that bet. But that . . .it’s one of the few things I actually do regret. I still think about it, more often than I’d like.”

Claire squeezes the pillow, uneasy.

“Cas — did he really hurt Mr. W? Or, um, Dean?” It’s still hard to picture. Cas is such a dork sometimes, whatever Dad may have told her about his so-called wild youth, and Mr. W’s so confident and friendly (and handsome, apparently). She pictured him as a sort of — jock-with-a-heart-of-gold, in school, not somebody Cas or anyone else could take advantage of.

Except then she thinks of how Mr. W treats his books, and his students, and how he dresses up to play pretend with his friends and proudly owns to being some cool-looking chick’s handmaiden — all the reasons she thought, maybe, he could be good for Cas — and okay, she can kind of see it.

But what about _Cas_?

Bela takes a breath.

“Yes. I believe he hurt Dean, very much. And I am terribly sorry for that. But — it also hurt Cas, more than I even realized at the time. And that — that is what I truly feel awful about.”

Claire swallows.

“Hurt him how? Because — he felt bad?”

“That, too. But mostly—" Bela shifts, clearly thinking. “Dean was different, when we knew him, such a late bloomer no one was sure it would ever happen. He was awkward, and unabashedly nerdy, and for all that his Dad coached the football team and he was on it, no one paid him any mind.”

“That’s kind of hard to picture.”

“Isn’t it? And yet — in addition to all that, I believe Dean was _also_ Cas’s first love.” She pauses. “Maybe only.”

Claire just — stares.

“Then — then why did he—"

“He didn’t _know,_ ” Bela interrupts. “N one of us did. I mean, we thought, sometimes, that he was getting _attached_ — we even teased him about it — but . . . it never occurred to us that it could be like _that._ We were kids, Claire. We didn’t know a bloody thing about love. Probably most of us didn’t even think it existed.”

“But what about when he realized—"

Again, Bela cuts her off.

“It was too late,” she says gently. “We’ve never really talked about it, but I don’t think he understood until years later. It _crushed_ him, though; he was never the same afterward. And that’s _good,_ Claire. He’s a better man for it. He hasn’t done anything like that since, and I doubt he ever could again.”

Well, _that_ at least makes some sense.

It doesn’t fix the past, though.

“But do you think — do you think Dean could forgive him?” she asks, hopeful, and Bela’s expression shifts, confused and curious.

“I honestly don’t know,” she says slowly. “But Claire — what _is_ all of this to y—"

She doesn’t get to finish asking, because just then, Cas and Anna come in.

“Dinner’s up,” Anna announces. “Are you two . . . enjoying yourselves?”

The pair exchange glances, and Claire sniffs, not having forgotten the start to their conversation.

“Cas, I think your friend needs a hug. She’s pretty damaged.”

Bela makes an outraged noise — _ha —_ and Claire quickly hurries off to the kitchen.

Anyway, it doesn’t actually matter what _Bela_ thinks. The important thing here is that Dean and Cas _were_ in love, before, isn’t it?

And now—

Claire just has to make sure it happens again.


	19. Part II: now all my elephants are in the room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: referencing a hypothetical situation, a suggestion that other teenagers would most likely not want to date a teenage parent (more details and clarification in the notes), brief reference to teacher roleplay, reference to bullying and violence in school (details/clarification in the notes), homophobia (details in the notes), A+ parenting (details in the notes), brief implied correlation between beauty and waist size (details in the notes), implied Mr. Fizzles, drinking, please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> **** Chapters 18 and 19 posted together ****

> _And it’s everything I want_
> 
> _And nothing I can keep_
> 
> _Behind these metaphors_
> 
> _I want you literally_
> 
> _We crave the fiction when we need the truth_
> 
> _You need to find_
> 
> _A_ _different boy’s heart to chew . . ._
> 
> _\- Emoticons, The Wombats_

“So, excited for break, Claire?” Dean asks, although she doesn’t look particularly enthused. She’s been nibbling at her sandwich for a few minutes, but her paperback remains closed on the desk beside it.

She looks up at the question, studying him.

“Yeah, I guess,” she finally says.

“Plans for Thanksgiving?”

“Kinda. We’re going to my Grandma’s.”

“Nice.” Dean nods, casually drumming his fingers against his desk. “Got a lot of family comin’ to town?”

She makes a face.

“Ugh, no. Just a few of my aunts and uncles this year. And my aunt’s friend, Val.” She pauses, and just as Dean is hopefully interpreting that as her aunt’s friend, Valencia, as in _not_ her mother, as in not Cas’s _wife_ , she adds, “Well, and Bela.”

Dean’s hand freezes.

_Bela_?

Like, Bela _Talbot_? Lawrence’s Evil Bitch Supreme? _That_ Bela?

A horrible thought occurs to him.

Is — is Bela her _mom_?

When Dean was a freshman, Bela didn’t attend the first semester, supposedly in Europe having glamorous adventures or something stupid like that, but what if that wasn’t it at all? _W_ _hat if,_ in actuality, she was stashed away on some secret, luxurious estate in the countryside, gestating her and Cas’s _lovechild_?

“Uh. Mr. W, are you okay?”

“Is Bela your mom?” he blurts out, a little hysterical, but if she _is,_ then that whole, awful incident with the bet is somehow ten times worse, because that would mean the entire time Cas was fake-dating him, Bela and the rest of them egging him on, she and Cas — they — they were probably—

“Oh my _God,_ no! _Ew_!” Claire is practically plastered to the back of her chair, she’s recoiled so hard, and to be honest, Dean’s worried the sick look on her face might actually translate to some solid matter reappearing all over her desk.

Okay, fine. Maybe he jumped the gun a little, there.

But can you _blame_ him?

“Right. Sorry. I just—" He coughs. “Guess I always kinda wondered about them.”

“Well, _don’t_ .” She looks offended. “They’re not like that. They weren’t _ever._ ”

Dean just nods like an idiot, face red, because he pretty much is one.

“Right. Good, uh, good to know.”

She squints at him.

“What about you?”

“Sorry?”

“Did something happen with _you_ and my — my dad? Back then?”

Impossibly, Dean feels his face grow even redder.

“Mind your own business, Claire.”

She just widens her eyes, blinking at him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. W, are we not asking each other personal questions all of the sudden?”

Which is just _low._

“Point,” he grits out, glaring. “But we’re not talking about that, okay?”

She shrugs.

“Okay. You basically just answered my question, anyway.”

“ _Claire._ ”

“Fine.” A pause, then: “I guess I’ll just have to ask _him_ . . .”

“Swear to God _,_ Claire—"

“Yeah, yeah, shutting up.” She sighs, tapping her fingers against the desk. He can see her scrutinizing him, though she’s clearly trying to be discreet.

Whatever. Let her think what she wants. Dean is a grown-ass adult; he’s above caring about the opinions of a thirteen-year-old on his love life.

“He’s not like that with anyone,” she says suddenly, and resolve gone as quickly as it was made, Dean’s head snaps up so fast his neck hurts.

“Yeah? Is — I mean. So — so he’s not, like — married? Or seeing anybody, or — or anything like that?”

Claire shakes her head, emphatic.

“Nope.” She pauses, blue eyes solemn and intent. “I can’t even remember him seriously dating _anyone._ ”

“Oh.” Yeah, no, that’s — that’s actually pretty bad news, for Dean. Cas didn’t do relationships in high school, either, so if he’s pushing thirty and pretty much doesn’t date, period, this whole make-him-fall-in-love-with-Dean thing might not be as doable as he thought. “Like — since your mom?”

Claire tenses a little, making a weird face.

“No. They, um — they weren’t like that.”

Ah. So . . . nope, this doesn’t look good for Dean at _all._

She clears her throat, fidgeting with the page corners of her book.

“Actually, um, everybody says it’s because he never got over his first love.” She hesitates, eyes flicking between him and her book. “In high school.”

“Uh. Okay,” he says slowly, though really, he’s going need more time to digest all this. It’s sort of good news, because that means Cas _can_ fall in love with him, but it’s also bad, because he’s apparently still hung up on whoever it was that got to him in the first place _years_ ago.

Unless he just made it up so people wouldn’t hassle him to settle down, which, frankly, is a hell of a lot more plausible than Cas being a torch-bearing sap for puppy love.

“Just so you know,” Claire adds, and Dean nods distractedly. He appreciates the intel, certainly, but it’s given him a lot to think about. Who could this so-called first love even _be_ ? Maybe someone who graduated before Dean got there? And even then, it would have had to be a secret, or completely unrequited (though _that’s_ a little hard to believe) or else Dean would definitely know about it.

Huh. Maybe . . . maybe that’s why Cas was such a callous dick to Dean? Maybe he was actually just — nursing a broken heart when he made that bet, and he was so hurt he didn’t care who he hurt in turn.

Not that it’s any _excuse_ , but — like, Dean knows how shitty that feels , obviously. And no, h e’d never have done what Cas did, to anybody, bu t it took him a long time to get over losing what they had — or rather, what he _thought_ they had — and he knows he wasn’t always the partner he could have and should have been while he tried.

Which still makes Cas a dick, of course, but — maybe it explains some things. Things that still kind of bother Dean, even to this day.

Or — oh, shit. Maybe Claire is actually why Cas and this mystery-person broke up? Whether Cas cheated or not, Dean could see a teenager just not being able to handle their boyfriend having a kid. Really, somebody less blindly romantic, less stupidly infatuated than Dean was would probably have just cut and run as soon as—

“You should stop by.”

“Hm?” He forces his attention back to Claire, no closer to any conclusion than when he began.

“On Thanksgiving. You should like — stop by and say hi, or whatever.”

“Uhh.” Not only is that kind of weird (though in light of the conversation they just had . . .), but it’s probably a little inappropriate, too. As it is, some people would say he’s skirting a line here.

Although — and Dean doesn’t want to examine this too closely — it’s seemed less strange since he found out she was _Cas’s_ kid.

“My Dad would like it,” she adds quickly. “Like — you guys are friends, right?”

“Uh.”

“And my Grandma always makes way too much pie. You could take some off our hands?”

Dean sighs. He can’t really argue with _pie._ And he and Cas _are_ friends, sort of. Hell, Dean’s meeting him for coffee after this, not that Claire needs to know about it, s o even if his initial impulse is to say ‘no’ to visiting one of his student s on a holiday, there’s a part of him that thinks visiting _Cas_ on a holiday isn’t such a terrible plan.

“We’ll see,” he settles on, and she smiles.

“Okay.”

Lunch ends, and Dean sees her out the door before heading off himself. He’d been both anticipating and dreading this, before, when he thought it would be an opportunity to just bite the bullet and ask Cas directly if he was single or not, but now that he _knows_ he is . . .

Well, maybe Dean’s a little more excited. No, it’s not the date he’d been working up to before things got all tangled up like that, but — shit, things _aren’t_ tangled up anymore, not really. Whatever questions Dean might have about first loves and why exactly Cas felt okay being that shitty to Dean in high school, the answers don’t really matter, do they? And when they say goodbye today, Dean can straight-up _ask_ Cas on that date, if he wants. Next time they’re on his sofa, Cas looking all sexy and rumpled and dark-eyed with lust (maybe things are a little more exaggerated in Dean’s head) beside him, Dean could potentially just — fucking lean over and plant one on him. Really, as long as Cas is on board . . .

Dean can do whatever he wants.

Holy _shit._

He practically skips up to the cafe when he gets there.

Cas is . . . a little nervous, about coffee with Dean.

It’s just coffee, in theory, since their night got cut short, but Cas can’t help but wonder why they’re not just waiting and catching up on the movie, instead. It could be because Sam will be there all week and Dean doesn’t _want_ to wait (Cas is certainly not ready to risk Sam’s wrath by going back while he’s still there ) , but Cas can’t shake the feeling that Dean wants to _talk_ about something.

Is this how people feel when they think they’re about to be dumped?

On the other hand — maybe he _is_ . Sam, unrecognizable though he was, seemed rather upset to find him there; perhaps even more upset than Cas was at being interrupted. It’s entirely possible, then, that once Cas had departed, Sam put forth an effort to dissuade Dean from proceeding with his ridiculous evil plans, and ultimately managed to _succeed_.

Cas feels a stab of bitterness at the thought; if that’s the case, it would mean today could be the last time he sees Dean, except in passing. Had he known it would be over this quickly, he would never have sat through Ron and Harry being shitty to their dates, or any of the stupid Yule Ball drama that followed. No, he would have been out of his suit and on Dean before they’d even pulled Harry’s name from the goddamn _cup_.

(God, he’s pathetic.)

But he’s probably not even exaggerating, he decides, when he lays eyes on Dean waiting outside the cafe. Cas doesn’t have a fetish for teacher roleplay, either, but every time he sees Dean in one of those fitted button-down shirts and neatly-tied ties, he can’t help himself. He starts thinking about doing things in Dean’s classroom that would inevitably get him _fired_.

Dean grins when he sees him, clearly oblivious to his havoc, and comes to meet Cas halfway.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean.” Dean shifts a little closer, looking down at him with warm, happy eyes, and it’s all Cas can do not to fucking _demand_ as many kisses as it takes to make up for — well, for the last eleven years.

“How’s your day going?”

“Alright.” Mostly, he’s spent it worrying he’ll never find out if Dean’s hugs are actually as good as he remembers. “Yours?”

“Eh, not too bad.” Dean laughs, a little awkwardness in it. “Claire said I should stop by on Thanksgiving.”

“She did? You don’t have to—"

“Well, maybe I want to,” Dean interrupts, shrugging. “You’ll be there, and she did say there might be extra pie. What do you think, Cas? Should I?”

Cas hesitates. The idea of seeing Dean, if only for a few minutes, on what promises to be an otherwise incredibly stressful day is strangely comforting.

“I — if you’d like.”

“Yeah?” Dean smiles, cocking his head. “You promise there’ll be something sweet in it for me?”

Cas returns a sharp look, though his heart is a wild thing, fortunately concealed by flesh and bone and layers of clothing, so as not to be quite so obvious.

Though he’s pretty sure Dean knows, anyway.

In any case, rather than Sam’s arrival _discouraging_ Dean, it would seem that whatever’s been off with him since he found out about Claire is now firmly a thing of the past.

Which means what, exactly, for the future?

“We can negotiate,” Cas finally offers, not quite able to hold Dean’s gaze, and then he starts for the doors before the blush can set in.

He doesn’t make it far before his phone starts ringing, however, and by the time Dean catches up, Cas is frozen.

Claire’s been in another fight.

“What happened?” he demands, once he’s been assured she’s alright.

Dean raises his brows where he waits beside him, clearly curious, and Cas turns away impatiently.

“Well — supposedly she was trying to defend another student from some alleged bullying, but even if that’s the case, Mr. Novak, she needs to learn to use her _words_ or, barring that, let adults handle it.”

“And you’re sure she started it?”

The principal sighs.

“To the best of my knowledge, but Mr. Novak — the fact that solving her problems this way seems to be her first instinct is a huge red flag. I understand that her circumstances are difficult, and I’ve done what I could to be considerate of that, but violence isn’t acceptable. She’s going to seriously hurt someone, possibly herself, if she doesn’t learn.” She takes a deep breath. “I will be more than happy to meet and discuss solutions with you, but I can’t keep being lenient. If there’s another incident like this, there have to be consequences.”

He’s surprised the phone doesn’t crack from how hard he’s gripping it.

“Of course. I — I understand. I’ll talk to her.”

“Do that. I hope this will be the end of it.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Have a nice day, Mr. Novak. I wish you both the best.”

He lets the phone fall, when she hangs up, and Dean puts a hand on his shoulder, eyes searching.

“Cas? What’s wrong?”

Cas takes a deep breath.

_Everything._

But no. He’s not talking to Dean about this. There’s nothing Dean can _do,_ even if he does, and either way—

That’s not what they’re here for. _Whatever_ it is they’re doing — Cas’s problems, Cas’s _truths,_ have no place in it.

“Nothing,” he manages. “Come on. We should go inside.”

The grip on his shoulder tightens, Dean clearly trying to catch his eye.

“Hey, no, wait. You’re obviously upset. What’s going on?”

And the worst part is, Cas _wants_ to tell him. He — he’s shaken and agitated and he’s just been given another sign that the person he loves most in the world is suffering, and there’s not a damn thing he can think of to fix it. And Dean is _right there,_ and more than anything, Cas just wants to drag him back to the car, plant him on the seat, and curl up around him like he used to, and then he wants to tell him how worried he is about Claire and how helpless he feels, _all the fucking time,_ and then he wants Dean to hold onto him and tell him it’s going to be okay.

But that’s a big fucking problem. It’s one thing to be lonely, to lust after Dean — to pay an old debt, even. But Cas feels like he’s drowning, and everything in him wants Dean, specifically, to be the one to save him. He should be excusing himself, heading home to regroup, figuring out what the hell he’s going to say to Claire, when his words only ever seem to be as useless as he is — and yet he’s _glad_ Dean’s there.

He doesn’t want to leave and be by himself.

So, no. He’s not going to confide in Dean. He’ll have coffee with him and watch movies with him and maybe even sleep with him, if that’s what Dean wants, but he will not let Dean be his rock.

Not when none of it is real.

“I said it was nothing,” he mutters. “We should go in. You don’t have all day.”

He begins to step around Dean, but Dean pulls him back, turning him.

Green eyes peer into his face, intent.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got some time. Seriously, man. Talk to me.”

And for a moment, Cas just — stares. Dean looks and sounds the picture of concern, tone at once firm and gentle, like there’s nothing else he’d rather do than listen. Like Cas’s problems are of utmost importance, to him, and he’s ready to sit down and not get back up until he’s somehow solved them.

And Cas—

Cas can’t take it.

“Stop it,” he snaps, jerking away, and Dean withdraws in surprise. “Just — _stop_. I know you don’t care, Dean! I know you want your revenge and I know you deserve to have it, but you’re just going to have to fucking wait, because I have a _life,_ I have _obligations,_ I — I have people I need to take care of who don’t deserve to take a back seat just so I can get mine!”

Dean stares at him, eyes wide, and he’s not the only one, because on top of _everything else,_ Cas is making a goddamn scene.

“Cas, what—"

“I’m going. Enjoy your coffee, Dean.”

He practically runs back to his car, painfully aware that Dean is not coming after him.

And why would he? Right now — like always — Cas has absolutely nothing to offer.

Dean’s not really sure what went wrong, or even how, but damn it, he’s determined to fix it, and Sam’s concerned, friendly advice can go fuck itself.

And so _what_ if Cas was kind of right? He doesn’t get to just walk away, not again. Dean refuses to let him. Nope, Dean’s going to — to figure out what got Cas so upset, and then he’s going to comfort the _shit_ out of him, and then they’re going on a goddamn date.

Thus, it is with this resolve in mind that he shows up to the Novaks’ house on Thursday afternoon, Sam in tow and flowers in hand.

The flowers aren’t for Cas, of course, because even in the name of righteous vengeance, Dean point-blank _refuses._ Flowers are for long-term partners who specifically mention liking them, not for soulless fake-exes he’s hellbent on destroying.

(Or, well — _maybe_ once they’re fake-dating again, if Cas indicates that’s a thing he likes, Dean could consider it.)

(Not that Dean really thinks guys like Cas _would_ like flowers, since they’re, y’know, soulless.)

(Although — a soulless person normally wouldn’t have looked so hurt when they shouted at Dean outside of the cafe. They also probably wouldn’t have shouted in the first place, probably wouldn’t have said all those things about people they needed to take care of, or admitted that Dean deserved his revenge.)

(But hey — Dean never said Cas wasn’t special.)

“Are you going to ring?” Sam asks, clearly still grumpy about doing this, and hesitantly reaches past him without waiting for an answer. He’d initially refused to come, but then Dean had explained that Cas _wasn’t_ married or attached (at least, he did once he managed to get a fucking word in), though Valencia and Bela were both going to be there, and just like that, Sam was on board.

Bitch probably just wants to keep an eye on him, but that’s fine. Dean really didn’t want to come alone, anyway.

Barely a few seconds pass before the door swings open.

“Oh, hello!” The woman who answers has greying blonde hair, crow’s feet and laugh lines pronounced enough in her pretty face that Dean is sure this must be Cas’s mom.

Her eyes are bright and friendly, yet Dean is startled to feel a stab of petty suspicion, unable to stop himself from thinking, _so this is the woman who literally sent Cas crying to me when we were kids._

He shakes off the thought, smiling back.

“Hey there. Mrs. Novak, right?”

She nods, shaking the hand he offers.

“You must be Mr. W. Claire loves your class. I hope she didn’t pressure you to stop by.” She steps back, gesturing them forward. “Please, come in, it’s cold.”

They wipe their feet on the mat and step inside.

“Thank you. And no, no pressure — it was sweet of her to invite me. Claire’s a treat to have in class, so I’m happy to meet her family.” There’s surprise, at that, but mostly, she looks pleased. “And please, call me Dean.”

“Of course. Dean,” she repeats, smiling, then looks to Sam, curious.

“And this is my brother, Sam. He’s over at Stanford Law, but he’s home for Thanksgiving.”

Mrs. Novak beams, looking between them as she greets Sam and shakes his hand.

“Oh, how lovely. A teacher and a lawyer. Your parents must be so proud of you two.”

Dean shrugs awkwardly.

“Ah, well, I hope so. They’re no longer with us, sadly.”

“Oh, no, that’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” they both murmur, and Dean remembers the flowers, holding them out.

“These are for you, by the way. Happy Thanksgiving. I hope we’re not inconveniencing you too much.”

“Oh, _goodness_ no — you shouldn’t have! Thank you.” She accepts the tidy little autumn bouquet, looking outright thrilled. “I hope you two like pie.”

“Like ain’t really a strong enough word, ma’am.”

“Wonderful! I always make too much.” She smiles at them. “Well, let me get a vase for these. Everyone is in the dining room, just through there. I’ll fetch some chairs for you.”

Faint laughter and conversation can be heard from the direction she points, and they thank her, lagging back to take off their shoes while she takes the flowers to the kitchen.

Dean’s just stood up from placing his by the door, where several others lay, when he finds himself eye-level with the pictures on the wall.

And there, front and center, is Cas. He’s all suited up, hair neatly combed and parted, beaming as he stands next to a blonde woman in a simple blue dress. Each of them has one arm around the other, their free hands resting on either shoulder of a little girl he’s positive is Claire.

For a moment, Dean just stares, stomach turning over unpleasantly.

Cas looks like a stranger, somehow, happy and wholesome and totally at ease in his skin; nothing like the boy Dean remembers or the man he knows now. The blonde woman has a ring on her finger, its match just visible on the hand curling around her waist, and Dean’s brain suddenly feels flat.

So, Cas isn’t married now, Claire has abandonment issues, and they randomly moved back to Lawrence after a decade away.

And sometimes, they both get that sad, lost look in their eyes.

Now, Dean’s pretty sure he knows why.

Next to him, Sam clears his throat, and when Dean tears his gaze away, he finds Sam staring at the same photo.

“So,” is all he says.

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet for another moment, and then they head for the dining room.

Claire sees them first, jumping to her feet.

“Hey, you came,” she says, smiling slightly, and it’s probably the most enthusiastic he’s ever seen her.

_Cas_ , on the other hand, stiffens in his chair, back to Dean, and though Dean pauses for longer than is probably seemly, he doesn’t turn around.

Dean forces himself to look away.

“Hey, Claire. And yeah, we had some time, so we figured we’d come say ‘hi.’”

“He’ll do a lot for pie,” Sam adds from behind him, and Dean throws him a sharp look. Still, Claire just smirks, obnoxious and weirdly knowing, and Dean decides that means she’s probably not offended.

At last, Cas slowly begins to turn, the motion drawing Dean’s focus, and Dean finds himself holding his breath by the time their eyes meet. He wonders if Cas is still upset, still angry with him, but try as he might, he can’t tell anything right now.

“Hey, Cas,” he says softly.

Cas swallows, blinking back.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean’s not really sure what to say next, not with half of Cas’s family staring at them both, and it’s just as well, because Mrs. Novak appears behind them, two folding chairs in her arms.

“Please, sit down, you two. Have dessert with us.”

They each take a chair, awkwardly positioning them at the table when everyone shifts to make room.

They end up on either side of Cas, since he’s closest to the door. Dean kind of thinks Sam was hoping to get his chair in between the two of them, but fortunately, Dean wedged his in place and gestured to the larger gap on Cas’s other side before his brother could embarrass himself.

Anyway, Mrs. Novak serves out the pie, and once they’re all settled, the older man at the head of the table turns a critical eye toward Sam and Dean.

“I haven’t seen you two before,” he muses, studying them. Beside Dean, Cas’s grip around his fork visibly tightens. “One of you is Claire’s teacher?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean replies. The dude looks severe and constipated, something cold and flat in his eyes, and Dean’s dismayed to realize this is probably Cas’s dad.

Once again, he has to quell a surge of anger. It’s not his place, for a lot of reasons.

“Seems odd to visit.”

“Honey,” Cas’s mother chides. “It was very nice of you, Mr. W. I’m sure Claire appreciates it.”

Claire nods, something sly in her face that Dean can’t quite like.

“I guess, but he’s here for Cas more than me. They’re friends.”

Cas chokes on a bite of pie.

“Oh? I had no idea. Castiel, you should have said if you made a new friend.”

Dean bites back a smirk, torn between amusement and defensiveness on Cas’s behalf. This must be _so_ embarrassing for him.

“Well, not really a _new_ friend,” Sam interjects, even, and Cas’s gaze drops.

(If Dean thought he could kick his brother under the table from here without Cas getting caught in the crossfire, he would.)

Mrs. Novak just looks more confused.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you — actually, now that I think of it, what does the W stand for?”

“No, that’s my fault. We didn’t properly introduce ourselves.” Dean glances around the table with a friendly smile, though he’s seriously beginning to rethink his decision to come here. He wanted to get Cas _alone_ , not small-talk his dickbag family while Sam played passive-aggressive on Cas’s right. “Dean and Sam Winchester.”

“Dean _Winchester_?” a cranky-looking blonde woman repeats, voice carrying across the table, and Cas goes rigid.

“Rachel,” he snaps. Dean looks at her curiously.

“Hey, Rachel. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she returns, eyes full of unfriendly speculation.

Mrs. Novak looks taken aback.

“Mary Campbell’s sons?”

“Ah — yes. You knew her?”

“Oh, not well — but I know your grandparents, from church, and I’d always seen her around when we were growing up.” She glances between them, eyes sympathetic. “We were all so sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thank you, ma’am. That’s very kind of you.”

At the head of the table, however, Cas’s father is frowning at him.

“Ah,” he says after a moment. “You were the young man.”

Mrs. Novak shoots him a look, though she smiles at Dean.

“You’ve grown up a lot, I must say.”

And before Dean can even try and figure out what to say to _that_ —

“ _Grandma_ and _Grandpa_ knew about him?” Claire exclaims, and next to her, the redhead from Hex-trava-bone-za fixes Cas with an accusatory glower.

“How the _hell_ did I not know?”

“Oh, God,” Cas mutters, ignoring them both in favor of savagely filling his mouth with pie, and honestly, Dean doesn’t blame him.

Rachel, for her part, just looks annoyed.

“You don’t know because you didn’t have to listen to them yelling about Cas corrupting some wholes—"

“Rachel,” Mr. Novak intones, and immediately, her mouth snaps shut. “We have guests.”

To Dean, he says:

“It’s certainly a surprise to see you again. I apologize for whatever trouble our son must have caused you.”

And yup, Dean pretty much _hates_ him in that moment.

“Oh, no,” he answers kindly, not even thinking beyond a vindictive desire to fuck with this asshole as much as possible. “Cas was the best thing to ever happen to me, let me tell you.”

He’s vague on purpose, and either Sam or Cas is making choking sounds; it could be both of them, but Dean’s too busy grinning at Cas’s dad to look.

Mr. Novak’s mouth thins.

“I see.”

His wife clears her throat.

“Oh, um, Dean — weren’t you engaged to that nice Lisa Braeden?”

Dean stares at her for a second, briefly forgetting his ire, because Jesus _Christ,_ the town wasn’t _that_ small, even back then. Sure, he thinks Mrs. Braeden put an announcement in the paper or something, but — _really?_

“Uh. Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to say it didn’t work out.”

“It wouldn’t have, would it,” Mr. Novak murmurs, and that’s _it,_ no fucking wonder Cas was such a dick when they were kids.

“Of course, you were both so young. It’s a big decision, but I’m sorry it didn’t turn out,” Mrs. Novak says quickly.

“Thank you, me too. This is _delicious_ pie, by the way,” he adds, more than ready to be done with _that_ conversation, and she beams.

“Oh, bless you. Why don’t you take one for the road?”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t. You have a lot of other guests—"

“Who hardly appreciate it, and leave me with leftovers. I insist. I shudder to think what unsightly things it will do to my waistline if I’m left with all of it.”

Dean chuckles.

“Think it would take a lot to make you anything less than beautiful, Mrs. Novak. Your children—" he narrowly avoids saying ‘son,’ “—must have gotten it from _somewhere_.”

He’s tempted to check if Mr. Novak gets the insult, but he remains focused on Mrs. Novak, flashing his best smile at her.

She honest-to-god puts a hand to her cheek and blushes.

“Well! Now I’m _sure_ my children can do without.” With a smile, she stands. “Let me get that packed up for you.”

“You’re welcome to take some chocolate cake, too,” Valencia pipes up, and Dean glances over, a little weirded out to find her staring at Sam, eyes bright and smile enigmatic.

Sam is . . . very red.

“Oh. Um.”

Dean waits, perturbed, but nothing else comes out.

“It’s quite tasty,” Bela points out, licking her fork. He notes with a stab of disgust that it looks like she didn’t have _any_ pie.

“Thanks,” Anna says.

For some reason, Valencia sighs.

“We, um, we’ll probably be okay,” Sam finally settles on, and that decided, Mrs. Novak excuses herself to pack things up.

Valencia nods.

“Oh, well. Another time.”

Dean watches, disturbed and fascinated as Sam nods at his own goddamn plate, scratching at the back of his neck like he’s feeling for a spider.

“Ah — yeah, yeah, that — that sounds nice.”

“I think so,” she says agreeably, and Sam gives her-slash-his plate this small, bashful smile that gives _Dean_ vague flashbacks to his little brother’s childhood.

What the actual fuck?

“Well, it was really nice meeting you all,” he declares, deciding to worry about it later. “Sammy and I better get going, though; our Aunt and Uncle are expecting us.”

Cas quickly stands.

“I’ll see you out,” he offers, and after a chorus of murmured goodbyes and Happy Thanksgivings, Mr. Novak surveying them coldly all the while, Cas ushers them out and back toward the foyer.

Mrs. Novak meets them on their way.

“Thank you both so much for stopping by,” she enthuses, handing Dean the pie.

He pretends to sag under its weight, winking.

“No, thank _you,_ Mrs. Novak. It’s been a pleasure.”

She giggles, and next to her, Cas tilts his head, eyes narrowed and mouth slightly open.

“You boys and your family have a wonderful Thanksgiving, alright?”

“You, too, ma’am. Thanks again.”

She waves a hand and, after pausing for a brief, inscrutable look at Cas, returns to the dining room.

Sam clears his throat, apparently recovered from whatever the hell was happening at the table.

“Well, then, we better go—” he starts, but Dean just jerks his head toward the door, not looking away from Cas.

“Give us another moment, Sammy.”

“But—"

“I’ll be right there.”

Sam huffs out this huge sigh, like the melodramatic teenager he supposedly isn’t, but then he steps out and shuts the door behind him.

In his absence, Cas . . . well, Cas looks nervous.

“I’m sorry about — all that,” he blurts out, and Dean cocks his head.

“’That’ in the dining room, or yesterday?”

Cas looks away, hesitating.

“’Cause _I’m_ sorry about yesterday,” Dean continues, and Cas’s gaze snaps back to his. “I didn’t wanna crash dinner, even if Claire invited me, but, uh. I didn’t wanna wait to see you, either. I shouldn’t have pushed you, man. I’m supposed to be your friend, so if you need me to listen, great — but if you need me to shut up and not ask questions, I shouldn’t hassle you.”

“Oh.” Cas swallows, obviously thrown. “I — I don’t . . .”

Dean waits, still uncertain, and Cas takes a breath.

“Well, I shouldn’t have said — any of those things. I’m sorry, too.”

Dean shrugs.

“No, if that’s how you feel, you gotta say so. We have history, Cas, and we’ll never get past it if we pretend it’s not there.”

Cas nods slowly.

“I . . . suppose you’re right.”

“What was Rachel talking about, anyway? Speaking of history.”

Cas coughs.

“Uh. Nothing, it’s — you should go. Sam must be getting cold.”

“Oh, so it’s like that, huh?”

Cas narrows his eyes.

“Good night, Dean,” is all he says, and reaches for the door.

“Wait! Our movie got ruined, and coffee didn’t work out, obviously, so . . . how about you and I get drinks at _Roadhouse_ tomorrow night?”

Dean doesn’t believe for a moment that Sam didn’t tell Charlie, especially since he stupidly forgot to ask him not to, which means everyone probably knows, so he might as well.

Cas hesitates for so long Dean worries he actually will say no, to tomorrow night and every night after, and Dean’s not sure what he’ll do, if that happens.

He holds his breath.

“Alright. What . . . what time, were you thinking?”

“Six?”

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

Dean beams, clapping Cas on the shoulder with his free hand.

“Great. I’ll see you there.”

“Listen Dean, I know you’re tired of hearing this, but — I _really_ think this is a bad idea.”

“Don’t know what you mean, Sammy.”

“Yes, you _do_! You saw the picture!”

“Yeah, sure, but Claire says he’s single, so he’s single.”

Sam makes a frustrated noise as they turn on to their street.

“Look, I don’t know what his situation is, but — _oh, wait,_ I think I do! He’s a single d ad and his wife probably _died_ . Also? He's terrible for you. There is literally _nothing_ good about this, for anyone!”

“Widowers have to live their lives, too, Sammy,” Dean insists, very reasonably. “And the only thing that’ll be terrible for me is if I come this far just to give up now and have it hang over my head for the rest of my life.”

Honestly, Sam means well, but he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know how badly that thing with Cas fucked Dean up, way beyond a broken heart, so that no matter how hard he tries, he can’t make things work with anyone else. He can’t be _happy_ with anyone else.

Dean just — he _has_ to do this, and if Cas’s wife is gone, then that’s sad and Dean’s sorry, but — but that’s not a good enough reason not to.

(Though he still can’t believe Cas went and fucking got _married._ )

“Anyway,” he says, pushing away the weird, irrational anger. He can tell Sam is working up to a Lecture. “What was up with you at dinner?”

Sam goes so quiet Dean glances over to make sure he didn’t just tuck and roll right out of the vehicle.

“Uh,” he says eventually. “I . . . don’t know what you mean.”

Dean snorts.

“Yeah? What, did Mrs. Novak put too many ghost peppers in the pumpkin pie? Is that why you spent the last five minutes blushing?”

“Oh, shut up, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Sam sniffs, maintaining a very dignified silence from car to house and going off to hide in his room once they’re there, but fortunately, he doesn’t bring up Cas again.

Cas isn’t sure what to expect from his mother when he goes to help her with the dishes (assuming it _is_ his mother; the blushing and giggling have him wondering if she’s perhaps been possessed), but he tries to prepare himself nonetheless.

It used to be Jimmy who helped her, while Cas moved quietly in the background, putting away food and carefully avoiding any arguments, but Jimmy’s not here and Cas doesn’t think he or his mother have much energy for arguing like they used to, these days.

“Well. Dean seems like a very nice young man,” she says, within a few minutes of starting, and Cas narrows his eyes.

“Will this be another lecture about leading him astray? Because he’s grown up a lot, Mom, and I think he can wander off the path just fine on his own.”

(So maybe he does have some energy, after all.)

Hester sets a plate down, looking hurt.

“Castiel. I know that I may not — I might _prefer_ that you — but I’ve accepted that, well, if it’s going to be a man, then it’s going to be a man.”

“Bisexuality means it could be a woman,” he points out testily, and she sniffs.

“Well, I’m sure I’ve never seen you look at a woman the way you were looking at Dean Winchester this evening. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

Cas almost drops the plate he’s holding.

“ _What_?” he sputters. “I didn’t—"

“Castiel, I’m not blind. I saw how you were staring when I came back with chairs.”

He flushes. This is probably some kind of fucked up, pre-family-dinner anxiety nightmare. He’ll wake up any minute, and Dean won’t stop by the house, and Cas won’t have a date with him tomorrow night.

He suddenly hopes this _isn’t_ a nightmare.

“I just — I was surprised—"

“You shouldn’t do it in front of your father, though,” she continues, like he hasn’t spoken. “You _know_ how he feels about that sort of thing, so I wish you wouldn’t try and start things.”

Cas stills.

It takes everything in him not to hurl the plate at the wall and storm out.

“I do not _ever_ try to ‘start things,’” he grits out. “Unless _being myself_ is starting things. And for the record, I know how _you_ feel about that sort of thing, too, so don’t act as though it’s all Dad.”

Hester frowns, then rinses and dries her hands so she can put one on Cas’s arm. He struggles not to wrench it back, taking deep, even breaths in an effort to calm himself. She knows he doesn’t usually like to be touched when he’s upset. She _knows,_ and she always does it anyway.

Not that he knows _why_ he’s so upset. This is all old hat for them.

_I’ve never seen you look at a_ _woman_ _the way you were looking at Dean Winchester this evening. Or anyone else._

So maybe not _entirely_ old hat.

“However your father _or_ I might feel about it, I understand, now, that you’re not going to change. And I’ve learned to be okay with that. Your father just needs more time.”

Cas can’t help it. It would be nice, just once, to hear her say, ‘and I wouldn’t want you to change,’ but she _does._ She would rather have Jimmy, instead of _Cas_ , the grumpy queer to Jimmy’s wholesome All-American boy, the rain cloud to Jimmy’s sunshine. And believe him, if he could have swapped places with his brother, if Hester and Claire could have Jimmy right now, instead? He’d make that deal in a heartbeat.

But he can’t. None of them can, no matter how badly they all wish they could.

“Right,” he says bitterly. “Thank you, Mom.”

She sighs.

“I don’t want to fight with you, Castiel. Believe it or not, I love you, and I want you to be _happy._ And if — _someone,_ makes you happy, then whoever that someone is . . . that’s better than you being unhappy.”

And Cas knows she’s being sincere, but he’s still torn between laughter and tears because his mother, after years of silent disappointment and outright condemnation, has given her (albeit warped) blessing for him to be with someone who will never _actually_ be with him.

“Thank you,” he mutters. “That means a lot.”

She gives him a squeeze, then returns to washing dishes, apparently satisfied.

And it does mean a lot.

He’s just not sure, still, if it’s enough.

Bela sneaks into his room — his and Jimmy’s old room — that night, to curl up beside him, blanket pulled high.

“Was Claire right?” he asks, without opening his eyes. “Do you need a hug?”

She pinches him.

“ _No_ , but the guest room your parents provided is _appallingly_ drafty.”

“Ah, yes. Anna’s old room. She used to need three blankets in the winter.”

“How good of you to tell me _now,_ ” she grumbles, wriggling a little to settle in. “Why isn’t _she_ sleeping in there?”

He opens his eyes.

“Because she and Valencia are sharing so we’d have enough space to give you your own.”

“Oh. Well, that’s awfully sweet of you, I suppose.” She pauses. “Sharing a room, or sharing a bed?”

He looks over her shoulder, and she follows his gaze — then jerks in surprise.

“Oh, my G—you should have _warned_ me!” she hisses, scowling at him.

He shrugs.

“I thought you were being quiet enough.”

Bela glances one last time to where Anna and Val are fast asleep in Jimmy’s old bed, Val curled up snugly by the wall and Anna sprawled in the space left behind.

“What’s the story with them, anyhow?”

“Story?”

“Are they . . .”

Cas waits, and she huffs.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, how are you still like this? I’m asking if they’re _dating._ ”

Cas snorts, and Bela shoves the blanket in his face.

“Shhh!”

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head, and she reluctantly pulls it back.

“No. They’re just very good friends.” He frowns. “I don’t even know if my sister likes women.”

“Hmm.”

Bela is quiet for a minute, leaving Cas to puzzle over the fact that she seemed to have come just to ask about his sister’s relationship status, when she sighs.

“So,” she whispers. “Dean Winchester.”

Ah. He sees, now. It was a trap.

“What about him?”

She turns to him more fully.

“It’s like _that_ again, isn’t it? Or . . . _still_ like that?”

He pauses.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I saw you looking at him. It was as bad as it always had been. Though I didn’t know a grown man was capable of it.”

Cas turns on his back, shutting his eyes again.

“Did everyone know but me?”

Well, and Dean. If Dean knew — Cas thinks, if Dean had known, he might have forgiven him. Might have fought for them, no matter how little Cas deserved it.

But Dean has no deep infatuation guiding him now; just anger.

“I didn’t figure it out for some time. The others probably wondered, but — it seemed so farfetched, back then.”

“If you’d gotten to know him—"

“I don’t mean because of _Dean,_ ” she interrupts, exasperated. “Stop embarrassing yourself. Cas, we were all so broken, it’s why we were even friends. The idea of love just seemed — well, _absurd._ Like my aunt actually bothering to come and meet me, or Crowley’s mother deciding she _didn’t_ hate him for some strange, unknowable reason. Just — another stupid fantasy for the pathetic and naive.”

“If only,” he mutters, and she lays her head on his shoulder.

“So it is? Like that, now?”

“I don’t know,” he answers, and he doesn’t. Everything now is so caught up in Dean’s dubious motives, and whatever Cas feels, he’s not sure if it’s a reflection of his own loneliness and desperation, or the fact that he may not have ever really gotten over Dean to begin with, or . . .

“Well, if it’s not, it will be, if you aren’t careful.” She hesitates. “I might have been away, but I remember what it did to you last time. I’m sorry for what we did, but not enough to watch you be hurt like that again.”

Cas worries it’s quickly becoming too late, but he nods. It’s sweet of Bela, to openly admit to caring, anyway.

“I’ll be careful.”

“If you say so.”

A few minutes later, he can feel her breaths evening out, and he moves his shoulder, jostling her.

“What?” she mutters.

“If you’re still here in the morning, my mother won’t give you hash browns at breakfast.”

“I won’t be _alive_ in the morning if I return to that tundra. Besides, we have two qualified chaperones and everyone saw how you were looking at Dean earlier. I somehow doubt she’ll have much to say this time. Now shut up and sleep.”

A little amused, despite his worries, Cas does.

As he drifts off, he thinks he hears her mumble:

“As if I eat _hash browns._ ”

Really, Cas isn’t sure how it happened.

Dean’s waiting for him in the parking lot, his friendly back slap somehow turning into an arm across Cas’s shoulders as Dean ushers him inside. Cas wants to mind that, knows he _should_ , just like he should have put a stop to this entire thing weeks ago, but he lets the arm stay until it reluctantly falls away when they get to a booth.

Dean sits, sliding in right next to him.

After that, however . . .

Cas was surprised that Dean wanted to take him here, but he figured now that Sam had found out, it probably wasn’t a secret anymore. And tonight, it’s made clear that yes, the cat is out of the bag, and as it turns out, none of Dean’s inner circle are cat people.

Well, he consoles himself. Dean deserves to have people who love him and look out for him, and Cas — Cas probably deserves whatever method they use to do it.

Anyway, Jo Harvelle delivers their beer, with a significant look toward Dean and a terrifying smile at Cas.

“Let me get that for you,” she offers, and whips out a knife, the blade of which she uses to pop open his beer.

Cas mumbles an uneasy ‘thanks,’ and Jo’s smile just widens.

Charlie’s there, too, clutching her drink and scowling, Eileen and Benny on either side of her, occasionally glaring and shaking their heads. Benny somehow seems even larger than Cas remembers, and Cas is only a little ashamed of how grateful he is that Dean’s sitting on the outside of the booth, like some sort of human shield.

“Well, hey there, fellas!”

Cas, still preoccupied with the way Jo is leaned against the bar, watching him while she toys with a butterfly knife, flinches, abruptly shifting his attention to the tall man who’s appeared at the table.

“Hey, Garth,” Dean greets him, and seems relieved, for some reason. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, it’s goin’ real good, Dean! Man, I miss it here. But hey, Cas is back in town!”

Cas nods cautiously, waiting for the punchline.

“I am. It’s nice to see you again,” he offers, just in case Garth _isn’t_ leading up to some scathing insult.

Garth just beams, reaching across the table to enthusiastically shake his hand.

“Back atcha, buddy! Oh man, I can’t tell you how glad I am to come in here and see you two together. Always knew you’d find your way back to each other!” He grabs Dean’s hand, too, squeezing them both. “Like my Mama always said: the slower the start, the longer the burn.”

“ _Garth_ ,” Dean hisses , wrestling his hand away. Cas might normally be amused to see how red Dean’s face is, except Cas himself feels vaguely like he’s _dying._

“Oh, don’t be shy, Dean! Though I guess you always were, huh?” He sighs, happy. “I remember how you were always lookin’ at Cas when you thought nobody was watching, ever since we first got to school. I guess you just knew he’d be special from the start, huh?”

“Garth, if you don’t _shut up,_ I’m telling Jo what happened to her favorite pair of winter socks!”

Garth makes a wounded noise, but Cas just stares at Dean, at the fierce red in his cheeks and the way he seems to have sunk into his seat a little.

And perhaps Dean’s put Garth up to this, perhaps it’s actually just another carefully-crafted part of the game, but it doesn’t seem like it, and it’s all news to Cas.

“Aw, Dean, don’t be like that!” Garth pouts. “You’re gonna hurt my _fillings._ ”

And then he chuckles to himself, slapping the table.

“Garth is a dentist,” Dean explains tersely, not that Cas would have had the wherewithal to ask.

“Ah.” He takes the opportunity to finish his beer in a few big, desperate gulps.

“Welp, it was _so nice_ seein’ you, Garth. Why don’t you go say ‘hi’ to everybody else? We don’t wanna hog you. Oh, and tell Jo we need some tequila over here.”

“Okie dokie, Dean.” Garth stands. “I can take a hint. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

“That’s not—"

But Garth is already ambling away, steps jaunty.

Dean casts a wary eye toward Cas.

“Don’t believe anything he says. Guy lives in his own fantasy world.”

“Of course,” Cas agrees neutrally, picking at the label on his empty beer.

Dear God, he thinks. How on earth had he managed to fuck up such a good thing?

It is likely this thought that prompts him to do as many shots as he does once Jo brings the bottle, throwing another ominous look Cas’s way, and soon enough, he’s lost track of how many he’s had and how much time has even passed since he began.

“Jesus, Cas.” The crowd has grown, and someone’s turned the music up, so Dean has to raise his voice a little. Cas thinks he sounds impressed, for some reason. “Your college days must have been fuckin’ _wild._ ”

Cas’s face falls, though it’s true, that he did this a lot his first year of college; even later, when he’d long since quit going out, he probably drank more than he should have.

“Dude — what — don’t look at me like that!”

Cas isn’t sure what he’s looking like, so he simply looks down, instead, just to be safe.

Beside him, Dean sighs.

“Okay, that’s worse. What? What did I say? I just meant — ‘wow, you can really put ‘em away.’”

Cas nods, forlorn.

“I can. I learned in college. I didn’t drink that much in high school.”

“Okay, and? That’s what college is for, right? Doin’ dumb shit and havin’ adventures.”

Cas shakes his head sadly.

“I didn’t want adventures. That’s not why I drank.”

Dean’s quiet for a moment, studying him.

“Yeah? Why did you?”

Cas snorts, pinching his shot glass.

“Because I’d already _done_ dumb shit. I wanted to forget about it.” And boy, did he try, not that it made a difference.

“What does that mean, Cas?”

Dean is looking at him, intent and significantly more sober than Cas. And Cas doesn’t _want_ to talk about this , but he’s already thinking of it, and maybe — maybe _this_ is what he really owes Dean. Not some vengeful farce, dragged out over all these stops and starts, but — but _this._

“I . . . I was lonely, when I got to college. I missed my friends, a little, but mostly, I missed . . .” He hears Dean take a deep breath, but doesn’t hear it let out, and he scrambles to explain. “You — you made me very happy, Dean. For a lot of reasons, but you also — no one — no one ever just — held me. No one looked at me like — I mean, they looked at me like they wanted me, wanted something _from_ me, but never like they just . . . were happy I was there. That they were with me. And I — I used to resent my parents, my family, for not giving me that, but after you . . .”

It’s hard. Even with countless shots loosening his tongue, the words still fight him, desperate not to be confessed.

“Cas,” Dean whispers, a little urgent. Cas doesn’t look at him.

“After you, I didn’t resent not having that anymore.” He swallows. “Because I knew I didn’t deserve it.”

It hangs in the air one long, fraught moment, and he hears Dean take a breath to speak.

Cas isn’t done, though.

“I still missed it, though. I still missed you.” He makes himself look up, meeting Dean’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Dean. I realized, much too late, that I never said that. The last time we spoke, I was trying to do damage control, to get you to stop looking at me like I was — to somehow stop from completely losing you. But that was selfish. Everything I did was selfish. I should have been telling you how sorry I was, and I _should_ have been sorry, because you didn’t deserve that. No one did, but — especially not you. You were — so _wonderful,_ so good, and so good _to_ me, that even if it was all real and there had never been a bet . . . I still wouldn’t have deserved you.

“I was a coward, and I should have told you all of that. And you — you shouldn’t waste any more time on me. I don’t deserve it. I never did.”

Dean is staring at him, speechless, and even as conflicted as he looks, he’s _beautiful_ , so much so that a part of Cas thinks he never wants to look at anything else.

“It doesn’t work like that, Cas,” he finally says, hoarse. “You can’t — these things don’t just turn off. Whether you’re there or not.”

Cas closes his eyes, turning away.

“I know,” he whispers.

Things get a little fuzzy, after that.

Dean is livid.

Dean is fucking furious, practically vibrating with it, his few drinks nothing in the face of adrenaline and rage, because — because if he wasn’t angry, he’s not sure _what_ he would be.

What — what did Cas expect to gain, spouting all that crap? The apology is too little, too fucking late, and the rest of it—

Fucking Christ, Dean doesn’t even know what to make of the rest of it.

This probably goes back to his blowup, on Wednesday. Cas has other shit going on, pretty serious shit, by the looks of it, and now that it’s all building up and starting to get to him, he thought he would come out tonight and get rid of Dean once and for all.

Well, Cas can tell all the clever, pretty lies he wants; Dean’s not giving up that easy. He _knows_ he’s been getting to Cas. Cas wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t, wouldn’t be so worked up, and damn it, Dean is gonna see this through.

Because whatever Cas is going through — it doesn’t matter. Dean can’t let go, not now, not after he’s made it this far. He _can’t_.

Luckily, it seems like Cas is too drunk to pick up on Dean’s peculiar mood, and they pass another half hour drinking water (though he’s not sure Cas notices the switch) before Cas starts to droop dangerously close to the table and Dean decides it’s probably time to haul him past the Glower Brigade and get him home.

(They go on the best fucking dates, don’t they?)

Garth gives them both a hug on their way out, and doesn’t seem to notice that Dean doesn’t hug back.

“Y’all have a great night, now, you hear?” he enthuses. Behind him, Charlie continues to glare daggers.

“Thank you, Garth,” Cas slurs, eyes a little unfocused. “You have . . . you have a beautiful soul.”

Garth looks _delighted,_ cheeks going pink.

“Aw, gee, Castiel. You better get him outta here, Dean, before you gotta worry about competition,” he teases, and Dean hefts Cas forward somewhat ungently, gritting his teeth.

“Yeah, I better.”

He loads Cas into the Impala, then gets in himself, starting the engine. He’d stopped drinking pretty much as soon as it became clear that _Cas_ wasn’t going to, and he’s just glad he can get them both home.

Cas makes a soft _whuff_ noise, shifting in his seat, and Dean glares at him.

“Do _not_ throw up in Baby.”

Cas nods, a clumsy, bobbing motion that goes on a little too long for Dean’s comfort.

“I promise.”

With a sigh, Dean drives out of the lot.

He manages to keep his mouth shut for a few minutes, but it’s been a rough week — a rough _night_ — and he can’t help it. It _bothered_ him.

“So. I don’t remember you ever sayin’ anything about _my_ soul. Even when you were trying to seduce me.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Why not?” Dean glances over, though Cas is just sitting there, staring out the windshield. “Probably would have worked.”

Cas is quiet for a long moment, long enough Dean’s pretty sure he must have fallen asleep.

But then he sighs, fumbling his way across the bench seat to put his head on Dean’s shoulder, left hand tucking into his jacket pocket like it belongs there.

“There are no words, Dean.”

Cas is fast asleep within minutes, Dean speechless beside him, and seriously, _fuck_ tonight. And fuck Garth, too. Everything was fine before he sat down.

Of course, Dean knows Garth isn’t the problem.

The _problem_ is that when they get to the Novaks’ house, Cas doesn’t get out. Instead, he just leans back a little, peering at Dean with dark, somber eyes.

“I never stopped thinking about you, you know.”

Dean holds his breath, and not because Cas reeks of tequila.

“Not just — not just the _guilt.”_ Cas blinks, then lets out a totally-not-adorable hiccup. “But — I never . . . I’ve never had what you gave me, again. And I’ve never met anyone like you since.”

He stares at Dean, earnest and hazy and clearly trying to tell Dean something, but nothing he just said makes any kind of sense.

“You should go inside.” Dean’s own voice sounds rough to him, though he just had the one shot of tequila.

Cas shuts his eyes, nods, and with some difficulty, gets out of the car.

Dean walks him to the door, and there, he ends up tugging the key free of fumbling hands and opening it for him.

But Cas doesn’t go in.

He stands there, staring up at Dean for such a long time, with this _look,_ that Dean thinks if Cas wasn’t so goddamn drunk, there’s no way he’d be able to stop himself from just kissing him, fucked-up history and plans for retribution be damned.

“Am I . . . am I going to see you again?”

Dean bites back a laugh, though nothing about the night’s been funny. Cas sounds so fucking _lost._

“Thought you didn’t want me wasting any more time on you.”

Cas slumps.

“Oh. Yes, that’s right. You shouldn’t.” He nods to himself. “Good night, Dean.”

And Dean wants to say something, as Cas shuffles inside and starts to shut the door, but he can’t think what, and a moment later, he’s alone.

Well, he decides, an ache in his chest, too huge and heavy to be heartburn.

There’s always tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** SPOILERS **
> 
> Suggestion that teenagers would avoid dating a teenage parent: Dean, in examining the hypotheticals of Cas’s teenage fatherhood, takes it as a given that he would have dated Cas no matter what, but supposes that someone ‘less blindly romantic, less stupidly infatuated’ would have cut and run, and that other teenagers would have shied away from that situation. This is not a judgment on teenage parenthood; whether you’re a teenager or well into adulthood, relationships are always going to be about how the people involved in them, and their respective lives, fit together. Dean’s being cynical about what his approach would have been, but on some level, he understands that for the relationship he and Cas had, that wouldn’t have been a dealbreaker (it probably wouldn’t have been, either way, but it’s worth noting that Dean also had domestic and caregiving responsibilities many of his peers did not).
> 
> Still, as anyone who has/had a unique situation as a child knows, connecting with peers when you’re facing a very different life and attendant obligations can be difficult, and as adults, we also tend to seek out communities and partners that work with the life and obligations we have. If Dean’s imagining that most teenagers would have felt ill-equipped/wary of being in a relationship with someone who had a child, that’s because of the stark difference in experiences, not because teenage parents deserve to be shunned or valued differently.
> 
> Bullying/violence in school: Defending another student from bullying, Claire gets into another fight. The school has made an effort to be lenient, given her circumstances, but Cas is warned that after this, there will have to be consequences. You may assume that depending on how the other student reacted or their parents felt, this incident could have/should have resulted in suspension as well. Again, I apologize if that lenience is disturbing to anyone.
> 
> Homophobia and A+ parenting: At Thanksgiving dinner, when Dean introduces himself properly as ‘Dean Winchester,’ Cas’s parents and his sister Rachel remember him. Cas’s father apologizes for trouble Cas may have caused Dean; when Dean makes it clear that was not how the situation was for him, his reciprocation being implied, Cas’s father reacts with poorly-concealed distaste and Cas’s mother tries to save the situation by bringing up Dean’s engagement to Lisa. When it’s noted that it didn’t work out, Cas’s father's response is ‘it wouldn’t have, would it,’ implying that Dean’s attraction/involvement with men would have been the cause.
> 
> Later, cleaning up after Dean and Sam have left, Hester tries to talk to him about Dean. Though this time around, she notes that she’s never seen Cas look at someone the way he looked at Dean, and effectively gives her blessing on that front, she says several hurtful things to him, clearly indicating that while she accepts this (his lack of gender preference) about him, she’d naturally prefer he be straight; she also chastises him for ‘starting’ things in front of his father by being obvious about that attraction. While she sincerely tells him she loves him and the most important thing is that he’s happy, whoever happens to make him happy, that sentiment still carries some judgment, and Cas is still left feeling frustrated and bad.
> 
> Correlation between beauty and waist size: Hester insists Dean take a pie for the road, citing concern over ‘unsightly’ things happening to her waistline if she’s left with too many leftovers. Dean protests that it would take a lot to make her anything less than beautiful. To be clear, her beauty should not be impacted by a change in waist size, in any direction, because size should never be how beauty is measured (and also, beauty should not be a factor in a human being’s value to start with, though that’s a conversation for a different day). Eating multiple leftover pies on your own will almost certainly give you regrets, but that shouldn’t have to be one of them.


	20. Part II: bad boys do it all for show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Dean makes a joke about Sam not being ‘that kind of girl’ (no one should ever use this term in earnest, and you may be assured he wouldn't), Dean spitefully hoping Hester had an affair (generally, people don’t deserve to be cheated on, even if they deserve to be called out for being assholes), reference to Claire’s incident from the previous chapter, Claire joking that things sound ‘kind of gay' (queerness doesn’t consistently manifest in certain life choices, such as choosing to play volleyball; likewise, she’s operating under the assumption that if the suggestion of being gay makes someone uncomfortable, it’s because they’re homophobic and thus deserve the discomfort, but that can be a complicated issue and it’s not my intent to get into it; basically, she’s thirteen and being a smartass, though I apologize if it leaves a bad taste in your mouth), reference to the burning of the Library of Alexandria, reference to idling in the kiss n’ ride queue (please don’t do this. Another parent may hurt you), briefly missing child and handling of the situation which leaves something to be desired (details in the notes), someone considering having sex they’re not really in the mood for (they don’t, but the thought process is there, and it is pretty clearly fueled by self-loathing), past character death/grief (warning in this one because Cas explicitly talks about it), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> Apologies for the long waits, and thank you all very, very much ♡ I hope you’re all staying safe and well, and please enjoy!

> _When I go to bed_
> 
> _I think of all the things I dread_
> 
> _And blueblack sits in my head_
> 
> _Close these weary eyes_
> 
> _For minutes at a time_
> 
> _Wish I had connected all the lines . . ._
> 
> _\- Blueblack, Tulpa ft. BLANKTS_

“So, let me get this straight — what you’re telling me is, you flew all the way from California to spend the holiday with me, but you can’t help put up Christmas lights tonight because — despite the fact that you don’t even live here most of the time — you have a date _._ ”

“Um. Well — I don’t know if I’d call it a _date._ ”

Dean snorts.

“Is it Ruby? Damn it, Sam, it had better not be Ruby again or—"

“ _Dean_. It’s not Ruby. And God, would you get over it? I dated her for less than six months.”

Dean lifts his brows.

“Yeah? You want me to get over your shitty ex? Sure, okay, Sam, I can do that — when _you_ get over _Cas._ ”

His brother just looks back, unimpressed.

“And I’ll do _that_ when you do.”

Anyway, Dean decides not to dignify that with a response.

“Okay, so? Who is it, then?”

Sam shrugs, looking uncertain.

“You, uh. You remember, um, Valencia?”

Dean does, but—

“ _Valencia_?” he echoes, incredulous. “Dude, when the hell did you even have _time_ for that?”

Sam clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s, um, it’s kinda funny, actually. You know how we sat down for dessert? Well — when we got back home, I, um, I found her phone number tucked into my sock?”

And fine, Dean’s a little impressed by the blind toe coordination this feat must have required, but _still._

He makes a face.

“I can’t _believe_ you.”

Sam just offers him a sheepish smile.

“Hey, it seemed rude not to call.” He hesitates. “But when I get back, we can decorate inside?”

“ _If_ you get back.” Dean sighs, extra long and loud for Sam’s benefit. “Alright, I guess. Go, have fun. Use protection.”

“Dean. I’m not going to—"

“Relax, Sammy, I know, you’re not that kind of girl.”

“ _Dean_ —"

“I’m gonna go restock the fridge,” he interrupts cheerfully. “Snack requests?”

Sam gives him a look.

“I don’t know. Although, actually — maybe some baby carrots? And kale? That veggie burger didn’t quite do it for me.”

“Fuck off.”

Sam grins.

“I’ll take some _D_ _oritos_.”

“ _There_ we go.” Dean huffs a laugh. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

And yeah, Dean’s a little bummed that Sam’s going out tonight, but he can’t really complain. The kid _did_ come home early, and Dean _did_ ditch him to go out with Cas last night, so it’s not like he’s being unreasonable.

Besides, Valencia seems like an okay chick now that she’s definitely not married to or dating Cas, and Sam probably deserves a nice night out with her, if that’s what’s on the table.

As far as Cas goes . . . well, Dean hasn’t heard from him, today — not that Dean tried to contact him, either. He thought about texting, a few times, but he’s not sure how much of last night Cas actually remembers, or if Cas might be busy with his shitty family today, or — or, honestly, what he even wants to say to Cas.

And maybe Cas was just — drunk and burned out from a rough week with that fucker who can unfortunately be credited with helping bring him into the world (though personally, Dean kind of hopes Hester had a torrid, secret affair with someone halfway-decent, not that it actually helps Cas at this point), but if he’s actually getting cold feet . . .

(Although _seriously;_ how did people like _that_ have a kid like _Cas?_ Like, okay, sure, Cas is an asshole, but he’s also — he’s just — he’s so much more . . . well, anyways. Nature works in mysterious ways, Dean guesses.)

Sam, of course, thinks Dean should just leave him alone, and apparently _,_ Charlie agrees (because _apparently_ , Dean missed a whole big convention where everyone milled around chatting about him and attending panels examining the wisdom of his recent life choices and the longterm impact of his youthful heartbreak) . It doesn’t really matter how recently bereaved Cas is, they tell him, because he’s clearly having a tough time and _anyway_ , all these games are just fucking with _Dean’s_ head more than anything, so why doesn’t Dean just behave like an adult and do what’s best for everyone involved, okay?

Dean disagrees.

Dean’s head is just fine, thanks, and even if it wasn’t — he thinks it’ll be worth it. More than that, he’s pretty sure Cas can handle this. He won’t _want_ to, but he can.

How the hell is Dean supposed to proceed from here, though?

It feels like, no matter how hard he tries to plan, no matter how crafty he tries to be, that’s what he comes back to every week. Dean never thought it’d be _easy —_ it’s Cas _,_ after all _—_ but he thought once they got going, once he had Cas on the hook, he could at least figure it out.

Of course, if Cas weren’t this fucked up and complicated in the first place, maybe Dean wouldn’t have been so damn fascinated with him as a kid and this whole decade-long disaster could have been avoided.

The thing is — obviously, he knows not to take Cas’s drunken ramblings at face value. Even if he’s not a cold-blooded sociopath, guilty people still want absolution. Cas always had a sixth sense for what Dean wanted to hear — what he _needed_ to hear — and whether it’s a subconscious talent or a deliberate contrivance, if Cas can benefit from it, he’ll say it. That’s just human instinct, and since this time, Dean knows exactly where they stand, he’d be a fucking idiot to buy in.

On the other hand, though — he can’t help but wonder if he should really write _all_ of it off.

Not because he wants to believe any of it, but because he needs to know what, if anything, should factor into his plans from here on out; if Dean could actually use it against Cas, he’s gotta know about it, right? It’s just good sense.

So he thinks about it, while he does his shopping, and he thinks about it after Sam drifts in at eleven and is still happy to stay up late decorating and reluctantly waxing poetic about his new girlfriend, despite Dean’s very supportive and respectful attitude in asking, and when Dean makes breakfast for him and their sleepy friends the next morning, hanging out until it’s time for Charlie and Dean to drive Sam to the airport, he’s still thinking.

“Take care,” Sam tells him meaningfully when he hugs him, and as much as Dean wants to be annoyed at the warning, he accepts that his brother is just trying to look out for him.

“I will, Sammy. You, too.”

Sam nods, looking at him for a moment.

He takes a breath, and Dean braces himself for one last lecture about just how wrong this is, on all levels, because no matter how many times he explains, or even refuses to talk about it at all, nobody seems to get it.

But Sam ultimately just shakes his head, hugs him again, and then-

He’s off.

By Monday, Dean’s let it lie long enough he figures he should probably talk to Cas about it in person, if he really wants to know. He’s turned every word over in his head all weekend long, analyzed the meaning behind Cas’s head on his shoulder, of that hand in his pocket _,_ of the _lost_ look, right before Cas shut the door, and he’s decided he won’t know what to do about any of it until he sees Cas’s reaction, face-to-face.

Of course, he can’t go do _that_ until Claire’s done with her lunch, and while technically, he could tell her he had a meeting or something, today, he hasn’t kicked her out yet, and he doesn’t really want to start.

Anyway, he ends up glad he didn’t; to his surprise, Claire isn’t his only guest today, and the second one?

Isn’t there for Dean.

“Hi! My mom made these for you.”

Dean openly ogles the scene before him, scrawny Kevin Tran offering Claire a plate of _muffins,_ of all things.

“What,” Claire says, not a question. Dean suspects the kid may have broken her; and he’ll intervene, if he has to, but right now, he’s _dying_ of curiosity.

Is this some kind of eighth-grade courtship thing? Like, that’s terrible, because he doesn’t think Claire’s in a great place for that, and even if she was, Dean doesn’t place high odds on Kevin’s survival, but Kevin is smiling and earnest and the least nervous Dean’s ever seen him, and — oh, shit, Claire’s _blushing,_ a slow-moving thing, but no less intense for it, and — and oh, God, whatever this is, it’s _adorable_.

“To thank you, for what you did for me the other day,” Kevin explains, pushing the plate further into her space.

She stares at it with a probably uncalled for degree of horror, like it might be the bloody hearts of innocents rather than some unassuming baked goods.

“I — I didn’t—" She swallows, inching away. “I didn’t do anything for you.”

“Yes, you did, you punched Cole so he wouldn’t—"

“He was just in my way,” Claire insists, beet red and looking anywhere but at Kevin. “I didn’t — it was nothing.”

“No, it was awesome. If you hadn’t done that, my mom would have come to the school and made _his_ parents come to the school and it would have been super embarrassing. Oh, and also I would have a black eye. Aaand Cole probably would never leave me alone again.” Kevin pauses for breath, shuffling awkwardly in place. “Sorry they’re muffins. But they’re bran and really healthy. She would have made cookies, but she doesn’t think kids should have too much sugar or simple carbs.”

“It’s fine,” Claire mumbles, and reluctantly takes the plate. “Thanks, I guess?”

“Sure!”

She gives him an expectant look, clearly waiting for him to leave, but instead Kevin takes the desk next to her usual one.

“So like, do you eat in here every day?”

She blinks, then looks at Dean with wide eyes.

Dean just shrugs back; this is an important growing experience, he’s sure.

“Uh. Yeah? I don’t like the lunchroom.”

“Me, either,” Kevin agrees, nodding as he glances around. “That’s so cool. I didn’t know Mr. W was okay with that.”

“Mr. W’s cool sometimes,” Claire mutters, though she shoots Dean a glare which clearly says she doesn’t think he’s being very cool right now.

Dean’s okay with that. She’ll thank him later.

(Probably.)

Although — it sounds like Claire got in a fight for Kevin, and while Dean doesn’t generally condone violence, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little proud of her, right now.

Still . . . he wonders if maybe this has something to do with how upset Cas was last week.

It _would_ be her second incident. Dean’s kind of surprised she wasn’t suspended; maybe the imminent break had something to do with it.

“Oh, yeah.” Kevin glances over at him. “You’re definitely my favorite teacher, even though English isn’t really my favorite class.”

“Thank you, Kevin,” Dean returns dryly.

“Hey, can I eat in here, too?”

Claire stiffens, panic crossing her face, and the way she looks at him makes it clear she wants him to say ‘no.’

But the thing is, Dean’s not really sure that’s what’s best for her, at this point, and even if he was, he can’t really let _her_ be in here and not Kevin.

He gives her an apologetic look, but nods.

“Don’t see why not.”

She looks outraged, but Kevin’s oblivious.

“Sweet! Thanks. So, what are you reading, Claire?”

Just like that, he draws her into stilted conversation, throughout which she glares heatedly at Dean. He’s not especially bothered by it, though, because after a few minutes, she’s already starting to relax.

Until, of course, another visitor arrives.

“Kevin!”

Patience is in his first hour creative writing class. Excellent technical skill, but he thinks she holds too much of herself back in her work.

She doesn’t spare him a glance, alarm visible as she rushes over to Kevin.

“Oh, hey, Patience!”

“Kevin, what are you _doing_ here? You didn’t show up to lunch and I half-expected to find you stuffed in a locker or something!”

“Oh, sorry. No, I was just looking for Claire.”

Patience stops short, looking over at Claire, who sort of nods at her.

The other girl inhales sharply, expression pinched.

“Kevin. Can I talk to you for a minute? Over there?”

Claire gives them a suspicious look as Patience guides Kevin away, but fortunately, they end up still in earshot of Dean.

He at least _sort_ of tries to look like he’s not listening in.

“Kevin. Seriously, what are you doing here?” She inspects him, worried. “Is she bullying you? Because I don’t know if I can fight her for you, and even if I can, my dad will be really upset, so maybe if you just walk away with me now, she’ll let it go—"

They both turn to stare at Dean, who, despite his best efforts, is cracking up.

“ _What?_ ” Claire snaps, much aggrieved.

“Kev, you wanna fill your friend in?”

“Sure, but I don’t think she was done talking, and it’s kind of rude to inter—"

“It’s _also_ kind of rude to talk about someone while they’re _right there,_ ” Claire points out, scowling, and Patience flushes.

“Sorry.” She tilts her head awkwardly, clasping her hands together with a weak smile. “Yes, um, sorry about all this. I just — you know, I think Kevin and I should—"

“Patience,” Dean interjects, amused. “Claire threw a punch for your buddy there, so his mom made her muffins. Somethin’ to do with some kid named Cole?”

Patience’s face turns dark.

“ _That guy,_ ” she mutters, and Claire snorts.

“Yep. That guy.”

“Wait — when did this even _happen_?”

“Before break,” Kevin volunteers. “After lunch.”

Patience sighs, pinching her brow.

“And at no time this morning did you think to tell me about it?”

“Well, it ended up not being a big deal. For me, anyway. Claire probably got in a lot of trouble. Sorry, Claire.”

Patience turns then, studying her.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Claire mumbles, and Patience bristles.

“You were staring at me, too.”

“Because you two dorks butted in on my lunchtime.”

Patience opens her mouth, irritated, but Kevin hastily steps forward.

“So, uh, yes. Patience, this is Claire! She’s a badass. Claire, this is Patience. She’s also a badass, I think? She’s on the volleyball team,” Kevin adds proudly, and Claire lifts a brow.

“Sounds gay.”

Patience frowns.

“That’s really not PC—"

“Relax, it’s fine. My dad likes girls, too.”

Dean just barely manages to swallow before his sip of water ends up spat all over the desk.

Patience gapes a little, a very confused Kevin looking thoughtful beside her.

“I . . . don’t think that’s how that works?” she manages, and Claire sighs, reaching for her book.

“It was a _joke._ ”

Dean hides a smile when Patience and Kevin both take a seat, the former looking both curious and perturbed.

He has a pretty good feeling about this.

Cas, to his dismay, has forgotten nothing by the time he wakes, sad, hungover, and profoundly regretful.

This — this is why he doesn’t binge-drink, anymore.

And certainly, it’s true that Dean should probably devote himself to more productive pastimes, but still; Cas didn’t need to tell him everything _else._

Or perhaps he did, but that doesn’t exactly make it less _hideously embarrassing,_ and if that weren’t enough on its own, Cas must also come to terms with the fact that Dean probably _won’t_ contact him again; not after Cas blathered his shame all over the Roadhouse table and pathetically clung to him on the way home, like he hadn’t just furnished him with a host of good reasons not to waste his time on this.

(At least he didn’t cry?)

Anyway, he’s fully convinced of this by Monday, and he returns to work tired and despondent and, honestly, newly furious with his eighteen-year-old self, who’d basically stumbled into the Library of Alexandria and then, through his inept, careless bumbling, promptly burned it to the fucking ground.

Becky warns him Charlie’s in a foul mood, in case he happens to venture into the cafeteria or visit anyone upstairs, and Cas is feeling so bitter and exhausted he almost tells her he’s pretty sure he knows _why._

He doesn’t though. Instead, he resolves to just hide in his office all day, like the coward he’s always been.

Which turns out to be a good thing; Cas is just unwrapping his PB&J when there’s a knock on the door, and he automatically calls for his visitor to come in, though he still feels like shit and he’d rather just eat his sandwich and wallow in peace.

The door opens, and then:

“Hey, Cas.”

Cas drops his sandwich.

Dean — Dean is _here._ In his _office. Talking_ to him.

Dean takes a seat without asking, pulling his own sandwich out of a messenger bag, and flashes Cas a grin.

“Didn’t wanna ruin your favorite with some kind of crummy outside food,” he teases.

Cas, of course, just stares, in response to which Dean merely shrugs and unwraps the sandwich to take a bite.

It’s probably a full minute of Cas sitting, catatonic, before Dean puts it down and gives him a concerned look.

“You okay?”

“I — you — Dean, why are you here?” he blurts out, and they both wince.

“Uh. Well — why wouldn’t I be?”

Cas leans forward, searching his face helplessly.

“Dean . . . I know you haven’t forgiven me. I know that’s why—" He waves a hand between them. “And I won’t say I don’t have it coming. But — I meant what I told you the other night. You shouldn’t be giving me any more of your time, of — of your thoughts. For _your_ sake.”

Dean is quiet, almost sullen as he picks at his sandwich, and Cas worries, for a moment, that he might refuse to acknowledge it at all.

And then, finally, he speaks.

“I was like . . . twenty-two, before I even realized what had happened there.” He looks at his sandwich, brow creased, and swallows. “I . . . God, I was — I was so in love with you.”

It’s like a slap to the face — right before getting shoved off the edge of a cliff.

Cas doesn’t know what to say. These are the words he’d worked for, and by the time he realized he’d never get them, they were the only thing that mattered.

“I’m sorry you were still thinking about me when you were twenty-two.”

Dean snorts.

“Fuck you, man, I never stopped. Jesus, you don’t — I don’t think you understand what you did to me. Sure, maybe _you_ felt bad, but that — that messed me up.” He scrubs a hand over his face, glancing away like he’s not sure whether he really wants to continue. “People — they talk about two pieces of a puzzle. And that was me and Lisa. We fit, perfectly, but then there were still three other sides that didn’t connect to anything at all. With you, though, it was more like — I was one half of the pieces, and you were the other, and we just somehow _fit,_ throughout the whole big picture. And it’s fuckin’ _stupid,_ because we were just dumb kids, but — whatever bullshit reason you paid attention to me, it was like you _knew_ me. Everybody saw the kid I’d been and was, but it was like you . . . you saw who I was gonna be.”

Cas has already grieved this, extensively, and it was still not the worst grief he’d ever felt. Nevertheless, he finds that right now, hearing this — eleven years might as well be nothing, for all the fresh pain Dean’s words incite.

“”I don’t know,” he says dully. “I would have said I was pretty blind.”

Dean shakes his head, and a moment later, he laughs. There’s no real humor in it, though; just disbelief and a tired, well-worn sort of bitterness.

“Y’know, the first time you kissed me, I was — so fucking surprised. I was me, and you were _you,_ and I took it as a given that there was just — no way _._ But then you _did_. And I believed it, because — shit, man, _you_ looked surprised, too. And I thought, somehow, that meant it must be real.” He looks down. “I can’t even tell you how bad I _wanted_ it to be real.”

Cas remembers that, that he _was_ surprised, that he hadn’t planned for it at all.

He remembers Dean, mouth just as soft as Cas had always thought it would be, inexperience plain but not at all the deterrent it should have been, and he remembers the look on Dean’s face when Cas pulled back for air, lips redder from the attention, expression dazed and sweet.

And Cas remembers feeling _happy_ , even if he was too much of a fucking idiot to figure out why.

“I wasn’t exactly good-looking back then,” Dean continues wryly. “So thinking that — _feeling_ that you wanted me? It made me feel like you wanted _me._ ”

_I did,_ Cas almost says, but then he remembers he’s not allowed.

Dean, of course, isn’t finished.

“All that — good and bad, real or not — stayed with me, man. So, thanks I guess. For the apology. I appreciate it. But as far as the rest of it goes?” He catches Cas’s gaze, holds it. “It’s my choice, isn’t it?”

And that — that’s it. He doesn’t deny that he’s still angry, or that he’s only spending time with Cas so he can hurt him later. He doesn’t try to tell Cas another lie about needing to get past it, wanting to be friends with him, or offer him any reason to think this won’t inevitably end with Cas, heart just as broken as Dean’s must have been, and everything about it leaves Cas feeling more than a little defeated.

Still, he nods his acceptance, and satisfied, Dean picks up his sandwich.

They sit in silence the rest of lunch, but it’s not as uncomfortable as it should be, with everything out in the open. Cas isn’t happy with it — how could he ever be, with what he’d done? — but it is what it is. He’s the one who got them here, after all.

“So . . . are we still on for movie night?”

They’re walking to the elevators, and Cas looks up at him, expecting a cheeky grin or quirked brow, but — Dean’s just studying him, expression curiously soft.

“Can we do Friday? I’m supposed to help my mother with lights on Saturday.”

“Sure. I’ll see you then.”

And Dean squeezes his shoulder, a warm, gentle pressure that feels like a brand once he’s gone.

Claire expects to take her unexpectedly dense muffins home Monday night and never really hear from Kevin or Patience again, but somehow, they’re both back on Tuesday, disrupting her peaceful lunch routine with Mr. W once more.

“How were the muffins?” Kevin asks, oblivious to her ire.

“Uh. Good?” Honestly, Claire ended up in the bathroom enough times last night, Cas kept asking if she was sure she was feeling okay, but she couldn’t exactly tell him a classmate gave her some extremely fibrous food as a thank-you. He’d think she was making friends or something, and then he’d get all sad and disappointed later.

Kevin nods knowingly.

“My mom designed the recipe to help with digestion.”

Behind him, Patience widens her eyes and effects a comical grimace.

“I could tell,” Claire says, more blunt than she wants to be due to the distraction, but Kevin just beams. And even though Patience laughs, Claire doesn’t think it’s in a mean way.

Well — if they’re here _anyway,_ she might as well talk to them, right? She sort of promised Mr. W something like that, even if he was talking about in-class participation, but there hasn’t been a whole lot of opportunity, and Claire doesn’t want to feel like she’s not holding up her end of a bargain.

To her surprise, there aren’t really any quiet moments or awkward pauses. The two of them pick up the slack without seeming to notice all the times she gets uncomfortable or doesn’t have anything to say, and when they both come back Wednesday, too, Claire’s not exactly _unhappy_ about it.

Of course, she really doesn’t appreciate the way Mr. W keeps grinning at her and giving hers thumbs-ups, but she decides to let it slide for now.

Wednesday, however, they have yet another visitor.

“Oh, hey, Adam. I didn’t know you were comin’ to see me.”

“I’m not,” the newcomer returns cheerfully. “I came to see where those guys kept going at lunch. I was afraid I was going to find them making out in a closet or something.”

Patience sighs, Kevin making a face next to her.

“Hello, Adam. How are you today? Also, Kevin and I are still not dating.”

“Makes no difference to me,” he says, shrugging.

“Then why do you _talk_ about it all the time?” Kevin grumbles.

“I don’t.” Adam pauses, inspecting Claire. “Hey, who are you?”

“Adam,” Mr. W says, sounding tired. “At least remember your manners in my classroom?”

“You don’t, why should I?”

Patience clears her throat.

“Right. Adam, this is Claire. She punched Cole Trenton in the throat. Claire, this is Adam. He . . . inexplicably follows Kevin around just to tease him.”

Adam waves at her, and she looks him over, unimpressed. She doesn’t like people who tease.

“Huh. Sounds kinda gay.”

His jaw drops.

“Oh, God,” Patience mutters. “Don’t take it personally, Adam. She does that to _everyone_.”

Claire snorts.

“Yeah, because statistically, everyone _is_ kinda gay. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Patience gives her a look.

“No, but it’s _personal._ You can’t just comment on it!”

“Wow, okay. Sorry, Adam, I take it back.” She smirks, tipping her head. “I’m sure your weird thing with Kevin is just a _really_ special friendship.”

“It doesn’t really bother me that much,” Kevin volunteers helpfully, but Adam is giving Claire a funny look.

“Huh. How much time do you spend in here, anyway? You sound _just_ like Dean does when he’s not at work.” He makes a face and turns to Dean, who for once _doesn’t_ look like he’s enjoying this way more than he should be. “Oh, shiiit. Dad didn’t have another random kid, did he? Is that why she’s so punchy?”

“Adam,” Dean barks. “Half-brothers or not, I swear to God I will give you detention!”

“For _what_? I didn’t do anything. That’s an abuse of power!”

“You said shit!” Dean retorts, and Adam rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, and so did you, just now!”

“You—" Dean takes a deep breath. “Okay, everybody sit down and eat lunch, or get out. Your choice.”

They all take a seat, Adam muttering under his breath, but something he’s said has Claire curious.

_You sound just like he does._

Cas didn’t move in with them until Claire was about six and they made the move to New York in the first place. She doesn’t have too many memories from before that, but growing up with him, she remembers him telling her she reminded him of a boy he used to know, like when she’d get excited about dress-up or embarrassed about hugs or when he walked in and saw her in Anna’s too-big leather jacket the first time (and definitely a few times when she was sassing him). She’d tried to press him for details a few times ( _“Caaas_ . _How am I supposed to know if it’s even a_ compliment? _” “It is.”)_ but he’d just shake his head and get sad for a little while. She used to worry that maybe the boy had _died_ or something.

Maybe he didn’t, though. Maybe he grew up and started teaching English to eighth graders.

If that’s the case — well, she’s not sure how to feel about that. Mr. W’s pretty okay, so it’s not the worst thing in the world, she guesses. But it also means that for Cas, Dean’s _never_ been far from his thoughts.

Which . . . that _means_ something, doesn’t it? It’s not fate, because Claire doesn’t believe in things like that, not anymore, but maybe it’s something more powerful than that. Like a connection, or a bond — one that lasts.

Hell _yes._ She _knew_ it.

Lunch is — okay, kind of fun, though Claire’s pretty sure she wasn’t wrong about Adam and Kevin, joke or not. She thinks Patience agrees, if the looks she keeps giving them are anything to go by.

They have a few minutes left when Adam decides to hassle Mr. W again, though Claire’s pretty sure it’s just an affectionate little-brother thing. Her dad used to do it to Cas, even though her dad also liked to go on about adults behaving in mature, reasonable ways, and Claire thought it was pretty funny, either way; Cas would get all harried and snippy and stuff, and it sort of reminded her of needling a cat.

“Oh, hey, Dean,” he says. “I heard you had a new boyfriend or something?”

Dean flinches.

“No,” he says quickly, and — wait, _what_?

Claire narrows her eyes. He better not be ashamed of Cas.

“You kind of do,” she goads him, just to see. He shoots her a glare.

“I _don’t._ ”

“Fine, maybe you don’t,” she snaps back. “I mean, you haven’t even upgraded your moves since high school, so if you can’t seal the deal, _that’s_ no surprise.”

“ _Excuse_ me? Hold the fu-hold up. What is _that_ supposed to mean? What the hell did your dad tell you?”

“He didn’t tell me anything, _y_ _ou_ did. You told the whole _class._ Harry Potter?”

Dean looks outraged, but she thinks he might be blushing.

“He _asked_ to watch those! I tried taking him to dinner and dancing, but—"

“Sure, whatever,” she cuts him off, waving a hand, though she couldn’t be more pleased. Cas deserves somebody who wants to take him to do nice, fun things, but will also listen if he says that’s not what he wants. “If you don’t have game, you don’t have game.”

“I do _too_ have _—"_

“Woah, wait, you’re dating Claire’s dad?”

“No! We’re just—" Mr. W blows out a breath, briefly shutting his eyes. “Alright, enough. I’m a _teacher._ I’m not talking about my personal life with my students. Eat your lunch.”

Claire hides a smile in her sandwich. Mr. W’s not ashamed of _Cas_ , she decides. He’s just embarrassed, in general.

And maybe doesn’t know how much Cas likes him back, she thinks. Which basically makes him a doof, too.

Anyways, Mr. W’s still huffy and sullen by the time they all shuffle out of the classroom, Adam with an elbow propped obnoxiously on Kevin’s shoulder and Patience giving Claire a pointed, sidelong glance in their wake, and when the three of them file in for lunch the next day, and the next, Claire’s barely even surprised.

In fact, the chaotic new lunchtimes are _so_ distracting, Claire somehow forgets to be worried at all.

Still—

She should have been.

Cas has been so caught up in his drama with Dean, he forgot it was coming.

And he’s not sure why it’s practically easy, in comparison, to cope with Thanksgiving, but when Cas gets to the office on Friday and finds the walls covered in lights, holly, and tinsel, a huge tree in the lobby and a smaller one on every floor, something in him cracks.

There is a wreath, too, on his office door.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Becky enthuses, poking her head out of her own office.

Cas just nods and excuses himself to his desk.

Even growing up, he never especially cared for holidays. He either didn’t understand them, or ultimately had them ruined by his family’s approach to them. Christmas, particularly, was a time of too many people and _way_ too much church and forced spiritual reflection for him to muster up much excitement.

Jimmy, on the other hand — Jimmy loved it more than anything.

That, at least, was one thing he’d passed on to Claire.

Cas doesn’t get much work done. He feels fragile in his skin, at the same time his brain has turned sluggish and blank, and mostly he just wants to go home and hide beneath the covers until December has the common fucking decency to be _over._ It amazes him how he can go weeks , even months, like he’s something close to fine, and then there will be a day when everything just hits him all over again, like it just happened, and he just — he just _can’t._

Even with the door shut, he can hear Becky singing along to Christmas carols next door.

By eleven, he feels like he’s been at work for ten hours. Of course, it is then that he’s reminded that things can always, _always_ get worse.

Cas answers his phone when it rings, only half-paying attention until suddenly he’s not.

“. . . remind you that if Claire is out sick, you need to call it in.”

Which is certainly reasonable, however, Claire is _not_ out sick; Cas dropped her off this morning, idling at the curb (while other rushed parents probably yelled obscenities at him inside their own vehicles, no doubt) until he saw her walk through the doors.

And yet, she’d failed to show up for any of her classes today.

Cas numbly apologizes, pretends he just forgot, because the school can’t help him here and if he tells them she just _skipped,_ that’ll be three strikes, though suspension is the still the least of his worries right now.

He wants to disbelieve, focus on how cheerful she’d seemed yesterday, but he’s pretty sure he knows exactly what went wrong this morning; the only reason _Cas_ isn’t playing hooky is because he has an extra fifteen years of experience in just suffering through.

Which means Claire is out there, no doubt feeling even worse than he does, and worse, she’s all by herself.

Cas tells Becky he has a family emergency, and without stopping to elaborate on what it is, he leaves work and begins his search.

By two, Cas is panicking.

Claire is not at the apartment, holed up in her room with her music, nor is she at Anna’s, puppy-dog-eyeing her way into being low-key coddled by sympathetic parties all day; the house is empty, when he lets himself in, and Cas’s heart sinks at the silence that greets him, though he wanders through, calling out anyway.

She’s certainly not back at school for lunch, because Dean texts at twelve thirty asking if she’s okay. Her phone is off, and he’s long since begun to wonder if he was wrong to lie to the school, if he should be calling everyone he knows and asking for help. Maybe he was simply projecting his own feelings onto Claire; maybe she was fine, and maybe somehow, even though he watched her walk into the building, something else happened, and either way, right now she could be hurt or in danger and-

The more time that passes, the more hysterical he begins to feel. Claire isn’t at _any_ of the places he can think of to look, not the Rookery or the theater or the library or any of the gas stations and shops he stops at. He tries to reassure himself that she could easily be moving around, making it nigh impossible to catch her, and even if she isn’t, Lawrence isn’t really that small. She could have gone _anywhere._

But she couldn’t, his brain frantically argues. Claire can’t drive, which means she should have been somewhere near the school.

But _no_ , she wouldn’t have wanted to be caught, and given that she’s had all day to move around, the possibilities really are endless.

And of course, she could also have just hitched a ride, and as terrifying as it is to think of her walking around town alone, for hours, the idea that a _stranger_ may have picked her up-

Cas isn’t going to think about it. He — he _can’t._ No, he’s not going to think about a damn thing; he’s going to fucking _find_ her.

He’s on his third sweep of the park when he finally spots her; it’s nearing five o’clock, now, and school’s been out for a while. He finds her perched at the bottom of a slide, knees hugged against her chest while she watches a woman push a small child on the swing.

It should temper whatever storm’s been building up inside his chest the whole day, but it doesn’t. For some reason, catching sight of her, safe and unharmed-

The hysteria spills over.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

Claire jumps, scrambling to her feet once she sees him.

“ _Holy —_ Cas, where did you even come fr—"

“Car. _Now,_ ” he snaps.

She looks away, sullen.

“I’m not ready to go y—"

“Claire,” he interrupts. “We’re going home. Right now.”

Generally, Claire will argue with him a lot more than that, but something in his tone must stop her. She stares for a moment, wide-eyed, and then starts walking.

And Cas can’t remember having yelled at Claire since — well, _ever,_ actually. It was never his job to discipline her, and having hated being yelled at as much as he did, that certainly wouldn’t have been his preferred tactic even if it had been.

But after several minutes of driving in silence-

“Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?” he demands suddenly, knuckles white where they grip the steering wheel.

She slumps in her seat.

“No? Since Grandma came to pick me up and I wasn’t there?”

“I wish!” he exclaims, bitter. Trying to explain that to Hester hadn’t been fun, either, and he’s pretty sure he was too distracted by panic and terror to even do a very good job. “I wish that was all. The school called me at _eleven,_ Claire. I left work. I have been driving all over town, for _six hours,_ looking for you!”

He’s almost shouting now, but he can’t seem to stop himself.

“What were you _thinking_ ? You — what, you thought you could just walk off campus and no would _notice_ ? That nothing would _happen_?”

“I didn’t—" she starts.

“I had to _lie_ for you! I had to tell them you were sick, and then I had to leave work without notice , which bosses generally don’t appreciate, to come _find_ you!”

“You didn’t _have_ to _—"_

_“You’re my responsibility!_ Of course I had to! _Whatever_ you do, I have to deal with. If you go missing during the day, or you get suspended, or God knows what else you’ll do next, you’re not the only one it affects! I have no _choice_ but to deal with it as well!”

Claire stares at the road, fists clenched against the seat, her face pale.

“Well, I’m _sorry_ you have to _deal_ with me! It’s not like I decided that _—_ I never got a _choice,_ either!”

Cas freezes, making the turn for their street on auto-pilot, and just like that, his anger turns inward. Because of _course._ How could he forget? Claire never signed up for this, for being subjected to his inept, clumsy efforts at guardianship. Cas was never supposed to be the only one she had left.

But Cas is selfishly trying to hold on to her, like he could ever do anything but let her down, and he’s probably just fucking her up worse in the process. At the end of the day, what business does he have, yelling at her? The fights, hiding in Dean’s classroom, skipping school — they’re all _his_ fault. Because he can’t take care of her. He’s not enough to see her through this, and now _—_ now she’s suffering because of it.

And maybe — maybe he needs to let go. As much as the thought may put a knot of panic in his chest, maybe he needs to start thinking beyond what _he_ can bear and to what’s actually best for _her_.

Maybe he needs to give her a choice.

He pulls into the garage, trying to find the words, but it’s hard to put them together and even harder to force them out.

_Do you want someone else to take care of you?_

He doesn’t get the chance.

Claire shoves open the door and stomps into the building without a backward glance. By the time he makes it up, her door is shut, probably locked, and some kind of rock music is blasting behind it.

And Cas? Cas has no idea what the hell to do.

In the end, he does what is probably the opposite of the best thing.

He stays away from Claire, afraid of that shut door and the fallout of whatever will happen once it opens, and he asks Anna to come to his place to watch Claire instead.

And then, despite everything that’s happened, despite the fear and the anger and the acute, bone-deep anguish he feels, he goes to Dean’s house anyway.

His misery feels like a second skin, too tight and restrictive and desperate to be shed, and it’s no surprise that Dean can spot the poor fit the moment he opens the door.

“Hello, Dean,” he says tersely, heading him off, and pushes past him in search of beer.

“Uh. Hey, Cas. How — how are you?”

“Fine. Ready to watch.”

“O-okay, then.” He clears his throat, trailing after Cas as he moves from fridge to sofa. Cas knows he’s being rude, but the worried looks Dean keeps throwing him just fuel his mounting aggravation, and if Dean doesn’t shut up and start the movie soon, Cas is afraid he might — that everything that’s built up will just — and he _—_

Cas swallows against the lump in his throat, sitting stiffly as he waits for Dean to join him. He’s fine. He’ll _be_ fine. Now is not the time to have a fucking breakdown.

God, why did he even come here? Dean’s just going to tease him some more, isn’t he? Or perhaps he’ll even get angry with him, if Cas doesn’t cooperate, isn’t in the mood to play whatever game he has in mind.

Unless, of course, tonight’s the night, and Dean’s going to try and advance to the next step in his plan. And you know what? Maybe Cas will let him. He feels like shit and he’s ready for the day to be over, but maybe they _should_ just get this over with. In fact, maybe Cas should go ahead and let himself have that meltdown afterward, too. After all, if Cas manages to make vengeance satisfying enough for Dean, he might be happy to just move on and still be Claire’s friend like nothing has changed, because while Cas might like to believe Dean would do that regardless of what happens between them, he’s always been a blind idiot where Dean is concerned, and there’s no reason to think the pattern would break now.

But when Dean finally sits down next to him — he doesn’t turn on the movie. Instead, he rests a hand on Cas’s back, right across his shoulder blade, like the beginnings of an embrace.

“Hey,” he says softly, tugging Cas to face him. Green eyes are worried, deceptively kind. “You, uh. You seem upset.”

For a moment, Cas is speechless, caught on that, on the concern, on the — the _expectation,_ Dean waiting for Cas to talk and clearly ready to _listen._

And then—

Cas snaps.

He reaches out and shoves Dean’s arm away.

“ _Don’t_. Just — just don’t. I don’t need it.”

Dean looks taken aback for a moment, arm awkwardly sprawled over the sofa back.

And then his face hardens.

“Yeah? Is that right, Cas? ‘Cause I don’t know how you remember it, but as far as I could tell, for someone who didn’t wanna fuck me, you sure as hell still liked to be touched.”

It’s like a solid, nasty punch to the gut, catching him off-guard and unprepared. All of the sudden, Cas realizes why he probably came here tonight, and it’s clear to him that Dean knows, too, knows that that, at least, was never meant to be part of the charade, and now Cas is exposed and ashamed and frustrated and _aching_ for any kind of simple comfort, undeserved or not.

He puts his hands to his face, overwhelmed.

And then — a miracle happens.

There’s two hands, warm and firm as they tug Cas’s away from his face, and before he has a chance to be embarrassed by what he must look like, what he must be _showing,_ Dean wraps his arms tightly around Cas and pulls him close.

The tension leaves him like water from a balloon, rendered formless from a simple pinprick, and he molds himself against Dean’s chest, letting his head tuck into the crook of his neck and reaching his arms around to cling tightly back.

It feels like the easiest thing in the world.

Cas isn’t sure how long Dean holds him; there are no soothing patterns drawn across his back, no string of quiet encouragements, no relaxing of his arms. Dean holds him like he’s the only thing keeping Cas together, like Cas will fall to pieces if he doesn’t do it right, and Cas is grateful, because he thinks he might.

“This never leaves this room,” Dean whispers, clearly a joke, but Cas just grips the back of his shirt more tightly, turning his head so his nose is right up against Dean’s throat.

“Of course not. Charlie would beat sense back into you if she ever found out, and I’d never get to have this again.”

Dean snorts, and after a moment, starts to pull away. Cas is too utterly drained to try and pretend to cooperate with this effort, shamelessly keeping his hold on Dean’s shirt, even once there’s space between them.

“C’mon, man,” Dean coaxes gently, eyes searching. “What’s going on with you? Talk to me.”

Cas shouldn’t. He’s spent months not confiding in Dean, both to avoid burdening him and to protect himself from becoming any more tangled up in this than he already is.

But he _needs_ this — and yet, even if he accepts that, he still can’t be honest, because Claire asked him not to.

“It’s just — things with Claire. She skipped school today and I — it’s so hard. Everything’s so hard. I — I don’t know what to do.”

Dean frowns.

“She okay?”

“Yes. Yes, she was fine. She was at the park. My sister’s watching her now. But — we fought. She’s upset.”

Dean nods.

“Yeah. That — all that can’t be easy.” Dean squeezes Cas’s arms, still half-embracing him like he knows it’s what Cas needs — but it’s _Dean._ He probably does. “I, uh. I saw the picture, at your mom’s place. Was that — Claire’s mom?”

“Yes,” he says, unprepared for this line of questioning. He forgot about that picture. It was taken the year before he’d moved in with his brother’s family, and despite Cas’s protests, he was included in all the others, criss-crossed at Claire’s feet ‘like the family pet,’ he’d joked, not totally kidding.

Hester had _hated_ it, but Claire’s smile in those pictures was never staged, and Cas saw no reason to quit.

“Oh. You mind if I ask what happened?” Dean looks like he’s about to say something else, but seems to think better of it.

Cas hesitates.

“She passed away, a few years ago.”

“Ah. I’m really sorry to hear that,” he says quietly, eyes sad, and Cas can tell he means it. “How long were you together? Or, uh, maybe not — ‘cause Claire said — but, uh, obviously, you . . .”

Cas has no idea what Dean’s trying to say, but either way, he just — he can’t. Dean is holding him. Dean is _holding_ him, and it’s a hundred times better than memory, even with all the bullshit between them, and Cas can’t bring himself to create more.

“We weren’t.” Dean nods, surprisingly unsurprised, and waits for Cas to continue. “Claire — Claire isn’t my daughter.”

“Yeah, she told m-wait. What? Uh, say that again?”

“Claire’s not my daughter. She’s my niece.”

“What?” Dean repeats, blinking. Cas can practically see the gears in his brain stutter, grinding against some obstruction as they attempt to regain motion.

“Jimmy — my twin — was her father. And his wife, Amelia, was her mother.”

Dean stares.

“Wait — but you were — so — so the guy in the picture — but — and — _dude,_ how could not tell me you had an _identical twin_?”

Cas tips forward, tired, and rests his head on Dean’s shoulder. His legs twitch, and it’s a struggle to stop himself from bringing them up to form a bridge over Dean’s, like his body remembers but doesn’t understand things have changed.

“I didn’t want to. I wanted to be myself with you.”

“What?”

Cas closes his eyes.

“When you have siblings, a part of you always compares yourself, and you’re aware that a part of others does the same. But when you have an identical twin — who you are can never be separated. People see you like different versions of the same person, it feels like, and one of you must be the better one.” Cas swallows. “It was stupid. I would give anything to be the inferior twin again.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Dean argues, like it’s a reflex, then catches himself. He puts his arms around Cas again, loosely this time. “What happened?”

“Amelia got sick. Cancer. She was fine, and then six months later she was gone. And then — summer before last, there was a bad storm. Road debris. He—" Cas takes a breath, and the rest comes out as a whisper, because if it _does_ get easier, it sure as hell hasn’t happened yet. “He died on impact.”

Dean’s arms tighten. He’s quiet a long moment, and then:

“I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “I know — we, uh, we’ve got some shit, between us, but — I really am.”

Cas turns his head to look at Dean. He’s not surprised by the look on his face. Dean has just one brother, and it’s clear he’s thinking what it would be like to lose him right now.

“I know you are.” And then, unbidden, his mouth keeps moving. “I — when the accident happened, I felt so—" He stops, briefly overwhelmed by memory. He’s never talked about this with anyone, not then and not since. “I don’t know how to explain it. Scraped raw, and unsafe, and — _so_ out of control. I didn’t know what to do. I’d wake up and I’d just—"

Dean squeezes him, tilting his head to brush his cheek against Cas’s.

“You don’t gotta talk about this.”

“I need to,” Cas says, and it’s true. “It was a nightmare, and I couldn’t wake up. And it was happening to Claire, too, and I — I couldn’t do anything. And I — I’d find myself thinking of you. About that day I fought with my parents, and how you — you were _there,_ a place to go to, and you just — you _held_ me. You made me feel like it was going to be okay. And even though I _knew_ you hated me, that nothing could make it okay, this huge part of me wished I knew where you were so — so I could go to you. And I thought — in spite of everything, you might still do that for me.”

This time, Dean buries his face in Cas’s neck, arms like a vise, but no less comforting for it.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Yeah. Of course I would have. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

It’s ludicrous, because he shouldn’t be telling Dean any of this, shouldn’t be accepting comfort from him, shouldn’t even believe what Dean just told him. But Cas is wrung-out and done and he can’t care about any of that right now, because right now, they’re here, and this, at least, he’s sure is real.

He holds on.

It’s hard to think, with Cas a warm weight against him like he belongs there, and all of Dean’s instincts screaming at him to just _take care_ of him _, fix_ it, make it better — but Dean forces himself to take a step back and do it.

This thing, that happened here today — it’s a huge fucking deal. Not only does Dean _finally_ feel like he has the whole picture, for once, but this is a breakthrough as far as trust goes. Cas was open and unguarded and completely vulnerable with him today, and having Cas cling to him and confide all these things that felt like _secrets —_ it made something overwhelming and significant swell in Dean’s chest.

Probably triumph, he guesses, though that doesn’t seem quite—

Anyways, Cas is also definitely not married or grieving the mother of his child, and while Dean’s heart fucking _aches_ for him and what he’s been through, while a part of Dean’s instinct is to kind of wonder if maybe this should change things — he can’t afford to get sucked in by it. That’s what sunk him last time.

No, Dean’s here for one reason, and one reason only, and he’s gotta remember that.

Because this is _it._ He’s dragged this out too long, and now that all the cards are on the table, now that he’s got Cas, now that he knows, for sure, that Cas finally _wants_ something from him, something that actually _means_ something — Dean’s got nothing stopping him.

So he keeps an arm around Cas, who seems to be trying to fuse himself to Dean’s side, and he strokes his hair pretty much through the entire movie — to be more convincing, obviously — and even though it gives him a massive hand cramp, Cas doesn’t try to stop him (which is just further evidence for the whole cat debate, Dean thinks), nor does he make any move to disentangle himself until the credits have completely finished rolling.

And when it’s time for him to leave, Dean walks him to the door and looks him in the eye, and then he does it.

“Cas. Next weekend — will you have dinner with me?”

He can tell by the way Cas’s eyes go wide that he gets it. They’ve had dinner before, but this — this is different.

This is Dean asking him on a date. A real, official one, and all that could entail.

Cas’s face falls, for some reason, and for a heart-stopping moment, Dean thinks he’s going to say no.

“Okay, Dean,” he says quietly.

Dean breathes again.

“Can I pick up you up at seven? Saturday?”

Cas cracks a smile, and Dean just barely doesn’t find it beautiful.

“I haven’t lost Baby privileges?”

Dean shrugs.

“Hey, you didn’t throw up on her. Though you better keep it that way.”

“I’ll try,” Cas answers dryly.

Dean grins, and without a second thought:

“Well, then who knows — you might even earn some different ones,” he offers, and winks.

Cas stares.

And stares some more.

As the silence grows, Dean starts kicking himself. Like, shit, that was inappropriate, wasn’t it? Three hours ago, Cas was telling him how his brother had died and how hard it was to take care of his niece, and now that he thinks about it, the date thing was probably pushing it already. He should have waited, and called, but instead he freaked out about things changing and maybe losing his shot and _God,_ he’s such a fucking idiot—

The thought trails off, distracted, because Cas is steadily getting redder.

“Uh. Yes, um, then — uh. Good night, Dean.” He turns quickly, striding toward his car.

But not before Dean catches the guilty look on his face.

Dean quickly shuts the door, heart pounding, and tries not to think about what that probably means.

“How is she?”

Anna looks at him.

“How do you think? She refused to leave her room or talk to me — except to yell at me to ‘go away.’”

Cas slumps, tension returning like it never left.

He can’t imagine how Claire must feel. She’s spent the last several hours alone, with no one to hold her or listen or distract her with Harry Potter.

It must be unbearable.

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

He hangs his coat on the rack.

“She skipped school. I — I searched all day, but I couldn’t find her, and when I did, I was so — I felt so—"

“Scared,” Anna supplies, and he nods. “Cas, you should have called me. I would have helped.”

He presses his forehead into the heel of his palm.

“I forgot. I just — I just had to find her.”

Anna nods.

“Why is she so upset now?”

He sighs.

“I . . . may have yelled at her.”

“Ah.” Anna’s tone is knowing. “Because you were scared.”

“Yes.” He shrugs, helpless. “I’m not cut out for this.”

“Honestly? No one is. But she needs you to do your best. So — go fix it.”

“You think I can?”

“ _All_ of it, tonight? No. But you can start.” She squeezes his shoulder, pulling her own coat off one of the hooks. “Go on. She’s waiting for you, I think.”

“She shouldn’t be,” he protests bitterly. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“So?” Anna lifts her brows. “Children are way more forgiving than people give them credit for. I mean, come on. If Mom or Dad had ever come to you after a fight and apologized, explained themselves — hell, _listened,_ do you think you would have told them to go fuck themselves?”

“No.” Cas pauses. “Though I might have called an exorcist.”

“Well, you’re not a dick, so Claire will probably hear you out.”

She ruffles his hair before he has a chance to dodge. “Call me before bed, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you.”

She smiles.

“Any time, Cas.”

Once she’s gone, he goes to Claire’s door. There’s no longer any music audible, so he takes a seat on the floor and leans against it, turning his head.

“Claire?”

There’s no answer, but there’s a barely audible shuffling, and he hopes she’s listening.

“I’m sorry I yelled. That wasn’t fair.” He hesitates. “I — I wasn’t angry with you, not really. That is, you can’t go wandering around town by yourself, for any reason, but — I was — I didn’t say anything I meant to.”

He thinks he feels a weight settle against the other side of the door, faintly pressing it back.

“When the school called, I was worried sick. I know you think it’s lame that I wait until you go inside, but I do that because I don’t want anything to happen to you. I _can’t_ let anything happen to you. Not because you’re my responsibility, but — Claire. You’re my family. I know we have other family, and that’s why we’re here in the first place, but that’s not the same.

“And I understand. Before the school called, I was — crashing. My boss loves holidays, and when I got to work this morning, the whole building was covered in decorations, and your Dad — and I _couldn’t,_ I just—" he takes a breath, wiping his eyes. He thinks he hears a quiet sniffle from the other side of the door. “I don’t blame you for running away, Claire. I was terrified out of my mind that something would happen to you, but I don’t blame you, and I shouldn’t have been angry. And you — you shouldn’t be alone. You should have your parents. I would do anything to change things — _anything —_ but I can’t. I — I’m here, though. And I will always be here, as long as it is within my power to choose.”

There’s no response, but that’s fine. Cas can wait. This isn’t about him.

A half-hour passes, and his butt is feeling pretty numb when the door finally opens.

“Damn,” she says dryly, though her eyes are red and puffy. “Here I was hoping I’d catch you crying.”

She sits on the floor next to him, criss-cross, the points of their knees brushing. She looks so small, because she _is,_ and he wants to hug her, now, like he should have done at the park.

“I told Dean the truth,” he says instead, and she sighs.

“Thanks a _lot._ ”

“I’m sorry.”

To his surprise, she leans against him a little.

“Well,” she starts, chewing at her lip. “I probably shouldn’t have made you lie, anyway. He’s — he’s your friend, right?”

“Yes,” Cas says, though he doesn’t know, still, what to call it. But Dean is — significant. Something.

“And he’s my friend, too, I think. And it’s not good to lie to your friends, right?”

“Right.”

“So — so, it’s okay.”

They’re quiet a moment, and then Claire turns her face against his sleeve.

“You were a jerk, earlier,” she says, muffled.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Still. Thanks for being here, I guess.”

Cas realizes, suddenly, that he doesn’t _remember_ the last time he hugged her. Before Jimmy died, Claire used to be the one to ambush her grumpy Uncle for snuggles, even if it was supposedly for _his_ benefit, not hers. Cas has always struggled to know when touch is needed or welcome, and was conscious of the fact that at some point, Claire would reach an age when she no longer wanted cuddles from her parents and live-in babysitter.

But he’s pretty sure that in this instance, it’s called for, and may very well be needed.

He feels like an idiot, though that’s not new.

“What — wait — hey—" Claire starts, squirming a little when he draws her in and props his chin on her head, but despite her continued grumbling, small hands almost immediately clutch at his shirt. Underneath some artificial, fruity scent, there’s another one, soft and clean and familiar, that she’s had since she was an infant.

It’s unexpectedly comforting.

“Well. If you need a hug _that_ badly,” Claire sniffs.

Cas just laughs, giving her a squeeze and praying to whoever is out there that somehow, they’ll be okay.

As promised, he calls Anna after Claire has gone to bed.

She’s relieved to hear that Claire’s okay, but is apparently incredibly curious about how things are going with _Dean_ , now that there’s no crisis on the home front.

“So—" she starts, once he’s updated her, too tired to dissemble. With that single word, her disapproval is audible. “You both know he’s in it for some creepy, Machiavellian revenge scheme, and you’re going _anyway_?”

“Uh. Yes.”

A pause.

“What the _hell,_ Cas?”

He thinks he hears a faint “Ooh, what are we what-the-hell-ing Cas for?” in the background.

“I—"

“No! I don’t want to hear whatever crazy bullshit you’ve spun for yourself. Cas,” she implores. “I admit that he’s — well. Smokin’ hot, if you will. But the cake is not worth the bake. _The cake is not worth the bake._ ”

“It’s just a date, Anna.”

“Right, of course it is. And when he happens to invite himself in and starts giving you bedroom eyes, you think you’re really going to let that train leave the station empty?”

Cas blinks.

“You’re very creative tonight.”

“Stop deflecting!”

“Fine! So what if I don’t? It’s not the end of the world.”

“You can’t just — _give_ him what he wants!”

“You’re being absurd,” Cas insists, though he knows he’s the absurd one, and his sister is probably right. “What’s the worst that can happen, Anna? We sleep together and he laughs at me in the morning? In that case, I’ll just laugh right back, because the joke’s on him, isn’t it? No one as attractive as he is would have slept with me, under normal circumstances.”

There’s a heavy silence, and Cas decides that if the situation arises, that’s probably not quite what he ought to say to Dean.

“Have you no _pride_?” she demands, plaintive.

He thinks about it for a moment.

“Uh. No? No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, my God. I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”

“Perhaps — wish me luck that he’s as nice to sleep with as he is to look at?” he suggests tentatively. He doesn’t want to worry his sister, but he’s thought about this. Honestly, he’s been thinking about this for _months,_ and he’s finally reached a conclusion.

Why shouldn’t he? Why _shouldn’t_ he let himself have this, for as long as it happens to last? This time around, the only one of them who can get hurt is him, so if he wants this ( and he _does,_ whatever it happens to be), why not just let himself have it?

“Cas,” she pleads. “Just — _please,_ take care of yourself.”

“I will,” he promises, and in his own fucked up way?

He thinks that’s exactly what he’s trying to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** SPOILERS ***
> 
> Missing child and potentially poor handling: Cas gets a call from the school reminding him that he has to call in if Claire is going to be absent, and he realizes she’s skipped. He leaves work to find her, but as time passes and he’s unable to, he begins to panic and worry that he shouldn’t have assumed she’d gone somewhere safe of her own volition, and that she might be in danger and he should have enlisted help from the start. When he finds her at the park a couple hours after school has ended, he gets angry and yells at her in the car. She tries to tell him he didn’t have to come find her, to which he responds saying that she’s his responsibility and whatever she does, he doesn’t have a choice but to deal with it. Claire points out that she didn’t get a choice either, and Cas’s anger departs. She storms off to her room when they arrive home, and at a loss, Cas calls Anna to come stay at their place and goes to meet Dean, as planned. When he returns, he’s able to explain to Claire that he hadn’t meant to get angry, and that his fear made him react poorly, and that he cares about her, not as a responsibility, but as his family; he assures her that he will always be there for her, as long as it’s within his power.
> 
> That said, Cas is human, and also struggling to cope with his own feelings; his responses here weren’t perfect, and it’s reasonable to be disappointed in him or feel like it was unfair of him to meet Dean and seek comfort for himself without resolving things with Claire, so I apologize for any frustration with this.


	21. Part II: might make the sweetest moment sour all wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Claire worrying about Dean and Cas appearing easy to one another (she knows this concept is stupid, but feels conscious of broader societal views; to be clear, do whatever the hell you want on a first date as long as your date’s okay with it) (well, and it’s legal. Please leave the murder husbands for fanfic), references to A+ parenting (John seeming to save his better self for Adam and Kate, Cas’s mother sending him to bed without dinner or having his father throw his books in the garbage), **sexual content** (masturbation and fantasy (though Fabulous Brat says they’re more like kinky nightmares), section marked with *** at the beginning and end and tags/summary in the notes for those who skip or would like more detail), a character taking it as a given that sex is required for an adult relationship to be taken seriously (it is not; further details/clarification in the notes), references to past Dean/Aaron and past Dean/Lisa, references to hypothetical bottom!Dean, unfounded assumption of preferences (as you may recall from the original notes, Dean assumes Cas will expect to top), insecurity over sexual inexperience (more details on this and the few warnings before it in the notes), character getting upset about sex not happening (details in the notes), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> Apologies for the slow updates, work’s been hell and school is in session again. I hope you’re all hanging in there, and that you stay safe and well in these uncertain times <3 thank you so much for all your patience and enthusiasm, and please enjoy!

> _Go ahead and do your worst_
> 
> _Let’s make it last or make it hurt_
> 
> _I’m here, for whatever it’s worth_
> 
> _I’m ready for it_
> 
> _I’m ready for a new heartbreak_
> 
> _\- new heartbreak, sad alex_

The thing is — Dean and Cas are going on a _date_ this Saturday.

And normally, Claire would be ecstatic, because it means they’ve finally stowed their crap and realized the _obvious,_ but . . .

Cas mentioned, offhandedly, that she would be spending the night at Anna and Valencia’s.

Which — _ugh_. It’s not that Claire’s old-fashioned, or anything, but she does know that sometimes, things just go right over Cas’s head, and _clearly_ _,_ he’s missing the implications here. She knows he’s not stupid — honestly, if anything, he’s too logical, and he forgets the rest of the world hasn’t exactly caught up _—_ but he _is_ a little tone-deaf when it comes to social things.

And this? This is one of those things.

“Is everything alright, Claire?” Patience asks, patting her turkey sandwich down so the bread is basically flat. Personally, Claire thinks it’s gross, but Patience insists the texture is better that way. “You seem . . . worried.”

“I’m fine.”

“Really?” Adam interjects, skeptical. “’Cause you keep sighing like, every thirty seconds.”

“Do not _._ ”

“You do,” Kevin says, then hastily adds, “But if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay.”

And look, Claire can’t exactly talk about this particular problem with Dean sitting _right there,_ within earshot of all of them _,_ but for whatever reason, these guys keep showing up and Patience even asked if she wanted to go to _T_ _he Rookery_ with them tonight, so maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to fill them in on what’s going on.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Ugh, she can practically _feel_ Dean looking at her. Didn’t anyone ever tell him it’s rude to eavesdrop?

“Are you sure?” Kevin asks, in direct opposition to his previous statements. “It’s really healthy to talk about things.”

She glowers at him.

“I’m _sure._ ” With another glance at Dean, who _seems_ to be busy clicking around on his computer, she lowers her voice. “Are we still going to _T_ _he Rookery_ tonight?”

They all nod.

“Cool. I’ll tell you then.”

When she looks again, Dean’s still staring at his screen, but his eyes aren’t moving and he looks kind of suspicious.

She sniffs. _So_ rude _._

“So, what’s up and why didn’t you wanna talk about it in front of Dean?”

Claire gives Adam a startled look. Was she that obvious?

“Well, he’s my _teacher,_ for starters.” Although, for the most part, there’s not a lot she wouldn’t say to him, assuming she’d say it to anybody.

“I’m guessing it has something to do with your dad,” Adam continues, like she hasn’t spoken, and while it’s unexpectedly astute, it’s also really freaking annoying.

“So rude,” mutters Patience. Kevin just looks on, clearly intrigued. Honestly, Claire thinks Patience is just as curious as the other two, but it’s clear she has a problem with nosiness and unfounded gossip and obnoxiousness in general, and Claire doesn’t hate that.

Patience shouldn’t worry about it right now, though.

“Mr. W’s boyfriend?”

“Yes. I mean, no. Like — ugh. He’s not my Dad, he’s my Uncle, and they _are_ boyfriends, but not like, officially.”

“Yeah, everybody’s super mad about it,” Adam agrees.

“What do you mean?” Patience finally asks, and _ha._ Claire totally called it.

But Adam just shakes his head, drumming his fingers against the table.

“Well, _a_ _pparently —_ they’ve got history.”

Claire tenses. It kind of sucks that Adam has an in on Dean’s side, and she swears to God, if he runs his stupid mouth off about that horrible incident with the bet and makes Cas look bad in front of her new friends-

“What kind of history?” Kevin prompts, oblivious, and Adam gets this satisfied little smirk.

“I don’t know—" Oh, thank _God._ “But it’s _bad._ Everyone’s really pissed at your Uncle, Claire, except nobody will talk about it? It’s dumb. They just get all huf fy and cryptic without coming right out and saying anything, and then _Dean_ gets pissed and ignores them, and then they all look at each other like they can’t believe this is happening.” He pauses. “So w hat _did_ happen, anyway?”

“Uh. It’s not important,” she says quickly, and Patience frowns at her, opening her mouth before apparently thinking better of it. Good. “Anyway, that’s not the problem. The _problem_ is that they have a date tomorrow night.”

“You’re not happy they’re dating?” Adam purses his lips. “Dean’s kind of a dick sometimes, but he’s a really cool guy. I don’t know that your dad — or uncle, or whatever — can do better.”

“Yes, he can,” Claire snaps, even though she kind of agrees, and the fact that Dean _is_ pretty cool is the _only_ reason she’s even kind of okay with Cas dating. But if Cas can’t do better, it’s only because no one else is good enough, and Adam should know that. “Cas can have anyone he wants. Everybody wanted to date him in high school.”

Adam rolls his eyes.

“Oh, yeah? Well, what about now?”

Patience fixes him with one of the most scathing looks Claire’s ever seen, which she appreciates. Adam is being singularly unhelpful right now, and a part of her almost reconsiders telling them anything.

But — it’d be kind of nice, to have a second opinion. She could probably talk to Anna and Valencia about it, but Anna’s suddenly anti-Dean and Claire’s pretty sure Val just thinks Cas should get laid and not worry.

Which brings her back to her main concern.

“He’s busy,” she sniffs. “ _Anyway,_ the date isn’t the problem. The problem is that it’s their _first_ date.” Officially, that is, but she’s sure the distinction is important. “And my Uncle’s making me stay overnight with my Aunt.”

“Oh.” Kevin frowns. “I thought you liked your Aunt?”

“Either way, Dean’s definitely gonna be happy,” Adam remarks, eyes knowing, and she grits her teeth.

“Not if I can help it.”

“I feel like I’m missing something,” Patience says slowly, and Claire sighs.

“Why would Cas need me out of the house all night?”

There’s a pause, and then Patience winces..

“Ah. Okay. Well, that’s . . . awkward, but — they _are_ adults. Should we really be talking about this?”

“Yes, because it’s my _Uncle,_ and don’t you get it? If they do — _that —_ on the first date, Dean’s going to think he’s easy!”

And Claire thinks that whole thing is unbelievably stupid, and she knows Cas does, too, but who knows how _Dean_ feels about it?

And maybe if he thinks any less of Cas for that, or treats him differently because of it, he’s not the guy Claire thought he was — the guy Cas _needs_ him to be — but _still_. At the very least, Cas should keep him in suspense, shouldn’t he? That’s what all those dumb magazines they have in doctors’ offices say.

“So? I’m pretty sure Dean likes easy.”

She gives Adam a horrified look.

“Not that your Uncle is easy,” Patience adds quickly, squeezing her arm. “Whatever he decides to do.”

“ _Thank_ you.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with being easy,” Adam argues, and though normally Claire would agree, she knows that’s not the world they live in and she’s _worried._ “Actually, I’m pretty sure _Dean_ is easy. That’s what everybody says, anyway.”

And _great,_ now her concerns are twofold _._ Maybe Cas just thought the date would run really late and he didn’t want to wake Claire up when he came home at midnight, except instead of a chaste kiss good night, Dean is going to literally throw himself at Cas and in the morning Cas will end up having second thoughts about whether this is the kind of person he wants to seriously date.

Despair overtakes her. Would Cas really do that? He’s like, the least judgmental person in the world — Dad always complained about it — and the whole reason she’s so worried in the first place is because it sounds like _Cas_ has a history of doing this kind of thing, so there’s no way he should have a problem with someone else doing it. Most likely, they’ll just end up being easy _together_ and neither of them will think anything of it because they’re both dumbasses.

Still. If there’s a way to make _sure_ Cas comes home on time, it can only be a good thing, right?

“Well, either way, someone has to save them from themselves.”

“Um,” Patience begins politely, but Claire cuts her off.

“Look, I _know_ my Uncle, and I have a pretty good idea about Dean, too. They’re bound to mess it up if no one’s looking out for them.”

“Dean is pretty dumb,” Adam agrees, and although Claire bristles at the appalling lack of loyalty, she doesn’t say anything. She’s not sure how close they are, but Adam could be a useful ally.

“That . . . could be, but are you _sure_ you want to interfere?” Patience looks hesitant, then straightens. “Honestly — aren’t you worried it’ll _backfire_?”

“No,” Claire insists, though that hadn’t really occurred to her. Cas did that infuriatingly stupid thing in high school, and it’s taken both of them months to even get to _this_ point, so how could Claire possibly make it worse?

Nah, this is a great plan, she decides.

“And what will you do if it does?”

Claire shrugs.

“It won’t.”

She has faith.

“At least don’t wear the skinny jeans,” Anna pleads, baleful as she perches on his bed, chocolate ice cream cone in hand. Valencia watches approvingly from beside her as Cas wriggles into the pants, heedless of his sister’s wishes.

“You shouldn’t have bought them for me if you didn’t want me to wear them.” He smooths a hand over the back pockets, lamenting his relaxed running schedule of late. Of course, his ass still looks incredible in these, else he wouldn’t be wearing them, but once they’re off, it’s not _quite_ what it used to be. He hopes Dean’s not disappointed. “And you two had better not get ice cream on the bed. I just washed everything.”

Anna gapes.

“You just — you’re not _seriously_ going to sleep with him tonight?”

“I don’t know yet,” he says.

_But probably._

“Cas!” she wails. “How can you just — go down without a _fight_?”

Valencia snorts.

“ _What_?”

“Sorry. But — you said ‘go down.’”

“You are a _child,_ ” his sister declares, pushing her, and a glob of ice cream falls from her cone.

“I _just_ told you—" Cas starts, irritated, and Anna perks up.

“Oh, no. I’m sorry, Cas. I guess that ruins your plans for tonight.”

“It’s just a pillowcase. I’ll throw it in the closet,” he informs her, resolute. Besides, unless Cas has completely forgotten one of the only things he’s ever been good at, Dean should be too distracted to notice anything amiss.

Valencia seems to agree.

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s going to be a dealbreaker for the guy.”

“Damn it, Val! Are you on my side or not?”

She shrugs.

“Just because you _visit_ bone-town doesn’t mean you have to buy a house there. Also, I hear it’s really pretty this time of Dean.”

Cas hides his laughter in the undershirt he pulls over his head, and when he’s free again, they’re engaged in some awkward one-handed grappling.

“Once again, I _just_ washed those,” he mutters, but is, of course, ignored.

Dean arrives at seven on the dot, somehow looking stupefyingly gorgeous in what Cas is fairly confident is just Midwestern Dude Casual, and Cas is glad no one is there to witness his enthralled staring. On the other hand, despite practically chasing everyone out of the apartment to go back to Anna’s house before Dean arrived, he wouldn’t be surprised to find them all hiding behind potted plants in the lobby.

“Hey, Ca-ah. Wow.” Dean blinks, taking him in. The black leather moto-jacket was a gift from Bela years ago, after she first saw the trench coat, but he hadn’t even taken the tags off before tonight. “Uh, I thought you didn’t own any other jackets.”

“Hello, Dean. I unpacked a box,” he lies, carefully locking up and brushing past him and definitely not hoping Dean is checking out his ass or anything.

There’s silence behind him as he starts down the hall.

“Dean?” he queries without turning, in case he looks as giddy as he feels.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I just — sorry, uh, coming,” Dean stutters out, voice unmistakably strained, and Cas hears him jog to catch up.

And as much as Cas is looking forward to the date, is always looking forward to his time with Dean-

Part of him feels like the end of the night can’t come soon enough.

They head out to an upscale steakhouse in the city, Dean apologizing for the length of the drive and Cas assuring him he doesn’t mind. He’ll be happy to be out with Dean, but a long drive sounds good, too, just the two of them in this vehicle Dean is so absurdly attached to, watching the town rush by.

Cas gestures to the radio.

“May I?”

Strangely, Dean just laughs for about a full minute, then pats Cas’s knee and turns on Led Zeppelin.

(Cas accidentally broke that tape while drunk and sad in college, but he still has the pieces in a shoebox under the bed.)

Curiously, Dean’s hand stays on his knee.

Cas doesn’t try and move it.

They mostly just listen, on the way there, the music quiet, Dean periodically humming along, fingers lightly drumming over Cas’s knee, but once they’ve made it into the restaurant and the server’s taken their orders, Dean leans back in his chair and just sort of looks at him for a moment.

Cas warms beneath the scrutiny.

“What?” he finally asks, wary, and Dean’s face softens.

“Nothing. Just, uh . . . how are you doing?” He hesitates, eyes flicking between Cas’s. “You feeling better?”

And though it’s probably either courtesy or craftiness or both, Cas is a little caught off guard by the concern in Dean’s eyes as he asks.

“Oh.” Cas looks back at him, searching, though it’s so hard to tell, with Dean. There’s what Cas _wants_ to believe, and then there’s who he knows Dean to actually be, vengeance notwithstanding, and then there is, of course, the unavoidable endgoal for all of it. “Yes, actually. Thank you.”

Dean smiles, and his relief seems genuine.

“Yeah? Things okay with Claire?”

“I think so. We talked, when I got back. I think — _hope,_ that helped.” Cas reaches for his water, a little at a loss. “She seems cheerful again, at least.”

“Yeah, I was thinkin’ that, too. Honestly, I was kinda surprised she skipped school like that. She’d been doing pretty good, I thought, especially since she’s made some friends.”

Cas pauses in his sip of water.

“She what?”

Dean tilts his head, then chuckles.

“Of course. Bet she was too embarrassed to tell you,” he adds, shaking his head. “Yeah, that kid she punched Cole Trenton for — he kind of attached himself to her, and his other friends followed, so now I’ve gotta deal with a whole congregation at lunch everyday.”

Cas stares, hope almost painful in it’s intensity.

“Oh,” he finally manages. “That — that’s wonderful. I think? Are they — are they nice kids?”

Dean blinks, and then he smiles, eyes warm and crinkly and so — so _soft_ as they regard him, and distantly, Cas registers something knocking against his own foot beneath the table.

“Don’t worry, Cas. I’d have kicked ‘em out if they were bad news.” He hesitates. “I can tell you a little bit about them, if you want, but I think it’d be nice for you to hear it from Claire?”

Cas nods vigorously.

“Yes, I — I agree.” Claire has friends. She has _friends,_ supposedly nice ones, and now that he knows, he can tell that it’s been making her happier. And Dean’s there, looking out for her where Cas isn’t able, so he doesn’t even have to worry as much about what new, unpredictable problems this could present.

He gulps at his water in an effort to calm himself, a little overwhelmed by the good news.

He just — he wants, so badly, for her to be okay.

“One of ‘em’s my half-brother, if that helps,” Dean adds, probably misinterpreting the gesture. “I’ll tell his mom if he’s being a dick.”

Cas blinks.

“Half-brother?” He didn’t know Dean had any other siblings. But then, he and Dean have somehow managed to skirt around all the more personal issues, before now; he supposes they’ve both had their reasons.

Things have changed, though, he thinks. Isn’t that why they’re on a date?

“Yeah. Adam.” Dean looks a little rueful. “Guess some of those weekends Dad left me and Sam on our own, he wasn’t just dicking around at the bars or on a hunting trip.”

Cas has no idea what to say to that.

Dean looks down, clearing his throat.

“Anyway, he’s a good kid. He can be a little shit, sometimes, but — a good kid.” The smile’s back, now, fondness in Dean’s eyes as his gaze returns to Cas. “I think he’ll be good for her — think they all will.”

“I hope so.” Cas hesitates, not sure how to ask, but not quite satisfied by the prospect of changing the subject to nonsense things. “When, um, when did you meet him?”

Dean looks surprised.

“Uh. When Dad passed, actually.”

“Oh. He never told you?”

Dean shrugs.

“No. I don’t, uh, I don’t really know why. I guess he just — wanted to keep the two things separate.” He clears his throat. “I — I get that he was different, with them? Maybe he didn’t wanna ruin it.”

Cas is quiet for a moment, chest a little tight.

And then, even though it’s stupid, and he doesn’t even think it’s supposed to be that kind of date, he reaches across the table, carefully slipping his hand into Dean’s.

Dean stares at it like it’s a roach that just skittered across the tablecloth and stopped in front of him; Cas tries not to take offense, and squeezes.

“Well. Adam’s lucky he ended up with an older brother, after all.”

Dean keeps staring at their joined hands for a few seconds, and then he looks at Cas, something vaguely panicked in his face, cheeks a little darker than Cas thinks they were.

“I.” He swallows, jaw twitching. “I — uh — the — would you like to see a dessert menu?”

He abruptly jerks his hand free of Cas’s, jumping to his feet.

“It’s just, you know, you kind of — if you’re going to eat more, later, you need to know, when you eat dinner now, or else — it’s just — planning is everything, right?” He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and limply gesturing behind him with the other. “I’m gonna — I’ll just go ask for one, real quick, and, uh, be right back.”

And then he hastens off toward the host’s station without another word.

Dean leaves him with the dessert menu — “But what about you?” “I already know what I want,” Dean mutters, not even making eye contact — and then stalks off to the restroom, and by the time he returns, the server’s brought out their meal.

Cas waits, awkward and unsure, hands clasped together in his lap while Dean silently fusses with his napkin and avoids looking at him.

At last, he takes a deep breath, picking up his knife and fork, and Cas is about to follow suit, when-

“I wasn’t — I wasn’t great about it, at first,” Dean blurts out, staring at his plate with a mild sort horror, frustration at the edges. “I — Dad left me a letter. And — like, he told me some stuff about Mom, that I appreciated, but then he said some shit about how he let her down, and then at the end, he — he asked me to keep taking Adam to these baseball games, like he’d always used to.” Dean swallows. “And nothin’ else. Nothing about — it was just — that was it.”

Cas quietly inhales.

“Oh.”

“I just — I was — I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was glad he was better for somebody, but — I couldn’t help it. I was pissed it wasn’t us.”

Cas nods.

“I, um, I think most people would be.” He hesitates. “It’s not — it isn’t the same, at all, but — my mother isn’t strict, the way she was. I lost track of the times I went to bed without dinner for things like using a swear, or that she’d find my books and have my father throw them in the trash, and seeing how she is now, with Alfie and Hael, or even with Claire — sometimes it’s hard. I’m glad, that she’s more tolerant, but . . .”

Dean’s shoulders relax.

“But you wish she’d figured things out sooner.”

“Well — things would have been easier, I think.”

Dean huffs a laugh.

“You think? Your parents were assholes, Cas. Hell, your dad still is. It’s no wonder you—"

He cuts off, but Cas knows what he was about to say, anyway.

“Uh.”

After a beat, Cas forces himself to shrug.

“It’s fine,” he says lightly. “Honestly, that wasn’t an excuse, either way.”

Dean’s brow creases.

“No, but — but still. It’s not like it wasn’t — I mean, I could tell things weren’t — that they were hard on you. Especially in hindsight, I know you just . . .”

This time, Cas has no idea how that sentence ends.

Dean takes a deep breath, troubled gaze retreating to his plate.

“Anyway. I didn’t — the point is, Adam probably didn’t feel that lucky at first, is all. If it weren’t for Sam, I — I probably would have burned that bridge.”

“Perhaps briefly.” Cas pauses. “But — it was understandable, to be hurt. To lash out. I think you would have come around, though.”

Dean smiles weakly.

“Think you’re giving me too much credit.” He shakes his head. “No, Sam pushed to get to know them, and — you know, Adam _is_ a good kid. It was a lot easier to hate him if I didn’t have to see him, but when I did — I mean, come on. I couldn’t stay pissed.”

Cas nods.

“Did you end up taking him to the baseball games?”

The smile lightens, discomfort fading.

“Yeah. The three of us still go. Adam stays over and we watch bad movies while his mom has a girls’ night.”

Cas returns the smile, never able to help himself.

“It sounds fun.”

“It is.” Dean sighs. “It really is. It’s, uh. It’s funny. Things don’t ever turn out like you’d expect, do they?”

“No,” Cas agrees softly, sobering. “They really don’t.”

Dean’s smile falters a little, at that, and then the foot is back, tucking up alongside Cas’s.

“So, uh. The four of ‘em can be kind of a handful, and I think Claire thinks she’s above the law, being my favorite and all. You got any good blackmail to help keep her in line?”

Cas struggles to suppress a grin, despite the obvious subject change, something in him lighting up.

“She’s your favorite?”

Dean rolls his eyes, planting his fork into the center of his steak.

“Of course she is, she’s just like—"

He freezes.

“Like. Uh. The kind of kid all teachers like. You know. Smart, good student, fun to, uh, to have in class. Classic — classic teacher’s pet material.”

Cas tilts his head, trying not to look too pleased.

“I don’t know that her other teachers feel the same.”

“Yeah, well, they’re probably not cool enough to get her to engage,” Dean says easily, relaxing. “So. You gonna give me some dirt or not?”

Cas hums.

“I don’t know if Claire will appreciate that.”

Dean considers this, steak knife pausing.

“How about I give you some stories about Adam to pass on?”

“You think she’ll need them?”

Dean shrugs.

“He’s a good kid, but he’s still a kid, and he’s still my dad’s. All three of us are assholes sometimes.”

“Everyone is,” Cas offers — after all, he would know — and before Dean can protest, nods. “But alright. Deal.”

Dean grins.

“You first.”

“Well . . . when Claire was six, she desperately wanted to be a firefighter, and she made me and her stuffed animals go up into her treehouse and pretend to be a mother and children trapped in a burning building.”

Dean lifts his brow.

“Sounds serious.”

Cas nods, solemn.

“It was. I handed my seven children safely down to her, but alas, I’d always catch fire by the time I made it out, and she’d have to thoroughly use the garden hose on me.”

Dean chokes on his first bite, apparently not expecting it, and Cas patiently waits for him to finish laughing, not bothering to disguise his own pleasure.

So Dean tells him about Adam, and Cas talks more about Claire and what she was like growing up, much to Dean’s amusement (though he swears to feign ignorance), and they bounce from topic to topic, lingering over their meals probably longer than the server would prefer. Dean still insists they order dessert.

“Alright, man, seriously — what’s up with the fries?” Dean asks, when Cas requests a box for the untouched side.

“Claire likes them,” he explains, because he can, now. “And I feel guilty when I go out to eat without her.”

Dean scrutinizes him for the duration of a few breaths, eyes soft.

“That’s really sweet, Cas,” he finally says. “Maybe, uh. Maybe we can take her out sometime.”

Cas’s breath catches.

“She usually — she won’t go places with just me. I think she’s afraid she’ll get stuck talking about something she doesn’t want to. I don’t know. But — she might like it, if you were there.”

Dean grins, lopsided and warm.

“’Cause I’m a fuckin’ _awesome_ teacher.”

“You are,” Cas agrees, utterly sincere, and Dean’s grin slips, eyes widening a fraction.

“Uh. I — thanks,” he says awkwardly, just staring, and even with a glossy tart attractively nestled on his plate, he hardly stops while they eat dessert.

Cas doesn’t bother trying not to stare back.

So of course, after a car ride home filled with slow, crooning soft rock and undeniable _tension,_ Cas is pretty sure he knows what’s coming when Dean walks him up, and he’s been psyching himself up for it all week. Even if Dean doesn’t try and make it inside tonight (which seems somewhat unlikely, given all the unmistakably heated looks being thrown his way), Cas is looking forward to some very intense making out, at least.

He licks his lips as he works they key in the door, anticipation thrumming low and hot within. Dean was getting so _good_ at kissing by the time they broke up; h e’s probably fucking _amazing_ now.

Not that Cas intends to make it easy for him, of course. He turns to Dean, affecting as neutral an expression as he can manage.

“Well — thank you for dinner.”

“Yeah? You had a good time?” Dean asks hopefully, smile widening. Cas nearly presses his palm over his heart, as if that could somehow help contain it.

“It was alright,” he says, shrugging, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Ha-ha, fuck you. I thought it was great.”

And it’s been a long, _long_ time since he’s done this (and _that_ awareness has certainly kept him up several nights the past week), but it feels almost natural to duck his chin and look up at Dean from beneath his lashes. Dean had said, that one time, that Cas’s eyes were like novels.

He hopes Dean can read them now.

“Did you?” he murmurs, perhaps a touch too husky, but he’s pretty sure he sees Dean’s pupils dilate in the atrocious hallway lighting.

“Yeah.” His breath seems to be coming quicker as he leans forward a little, but that could just be wishful thinking on Cas’s part. “In fact — I think we should do it again next week.”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

“Same time?”

“Make it Saturday?”

Dean pouts.

“That’s a lot further away.”

“It’s one day,” Cas protests, inwardly delighted. “I like for Claire to be able to stay home at the end of the school week.”

“Fine. I’ll take Wednesday.”

“ _Wednesday_?”

“I’ll bring you home early.”

Cas considers this, although the answer was always going to be ‘yes.’

“Fine. Wednesday.”

“Great.” Dean grins, then looks thoughtful. “Wait — so you _don’t_ have trouble sleeping?”

Cas bites his lip.

“I did this week.”

(And even if he always did, it’s been for much nicer reasons, lately.)

Dean sucks in a breath.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he offers, a low drawl that seems to reverberate through Cas’s very bones. “I hope you sleep well tonight.”

“Me, too,” Cas whispers, and the way Dean’s looking at him, he knows _exactly_ what happens next, knows when he does sleep, he’ll sleep very well indeed, worn out and blissful and comforted by the awareness of Dean’s warm body next to hi s , and oh, he’s so, _so_ ready; Dean smiles, eyes flickering to Cas’s lips, and then, at last-

He pulls away.

“’Night, Cas. See you next week.” And with one last smile, so shy and sweet Cas could almost believe Dean didn’t even realize what was happening here, Dean turns and starts down the hall.

Cas can’t even say good-night back. He’s speechless, standing there in his ridiculous jacket and too-tight jeans, waiting for a kiss that apparently isn’t coming.

Eventually, he opens the door, still in shock as he shuffles inside.

Dean didn’t kiss him. Cas didn’t even get a peck on the cheek. Certainly, Dean didn’t eagerly hustle him into the apartment and start tearing off his clothes before the door was even shut behind them.

Cas is still standing in the entry, trying to convince himself he’s not disappointed (and failing miserably) when there’s a knock on the door.

Without a second thought, Cas wrenches it open, unsurprised but unabashedly _thrilled_ to see Dean on the other side. Of course Dean was just teasing him. Cas expected that kind of thing, knows he probably _deserves_ that kind of thing, and it ’s fine, they can laugh about it in the morning, but for right now, he’s sure Dean is about to make it up to him and _he can’t fucking wait._

“Sorry,” Dean says, hands tucked awkwardly in his pockets as he hovers. He sounds almost bashful. “I — I just—"

And then he leans in and kisses him.

And Cas is — Cas is stunned. He’s speculated, _extensively,_ about how this would go down, and not once did he picture it like this.

It’s over almost as soon as it begins, and then Dean is retreating, grin crooked and eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Okay,” he breathes. “Good night, Cas.”

And then he’s gone again.

Cas just stands there, almost frozen, tips of his fingers pressed to his lips, chasing the memory of something so fleeting he almost wonders if it actually happened. Half of him thinks Dean might come back again, and it’s several minutes before he can bring himself to go back inside.

What the _fuck_?

He places a hand against his chest, feeling his heart pound. It was barely even a kiss, but it’s in his head on replay, set to a thundering soundtrack of _outrage_.

Cas isn’t naive. He knows nothing has changed, even after all the heart-to-hearts and the best date Cas thinks he’s ever been on, and this _has_ to be a specially calculated part of Dean’s plan. In fact, this is probably happening this way _because_ of all that, because Dean _knows_ how weak he is, now.

His phone pings, and he pulls it out of the stiff zippered pocket on his jacket.

>> seriously though, I had a really good time tonight

Cas is halfway through typing out ‘sure, but it would have been better if you’d aggressively ravished me in my foyer like I expected you to’ before he realizes that’s probably a little overboard.

Another text appears.

>> lookin forward to wed :)

He grimaces.

 _Likewise,_ is all he sends back, barely able to contain his ire. Dean is probably laughing his ass off all the way home right now, well aware of what he just did. The _fucker._

Cas’s phone rings, then, startling him into nearly dropping it.

“Anna?”

“Hi, Cas.” She sounds pained. “I am _so_ sorry to interrupt, I swear, but Claire’s, uh, been really difficult this evening. I have _no_ idea why, and I tried to explain that it would really be better not to interrupt, but she’s insisting I take her home. What do you want me to do?”

He sighs. Great. Just what they need. He and Dean probably jinxed things at dinner.

“I’ll come get her.”

“Um, are you sure? I could drive _really_ slowly, if you guys need more time—"

“Dean left.”

“What?” Anna sounds as surprised as Cas probably was, if a little less disappointed. “Why?”

“Because we finished dinner and he drove me home and _apparently,_ that means a date is over.”

“Wait — he didn’t even _try_ anything?”

“He kissed me. For about a nanosecond,” Cas clarifies flatly. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh. Okay. I’m sorry.”

To her credit, she sounds genuinely sympathetic, and Cas sighs.

“Thank you, Anna. I’ll be there in a bit.”

He lets himself in when he gets there, prepared for the worst, and he’s more than a little surprised to find Claire happily gnawing on a Red Vine while she plays a card game on Valencia’s laptop.

Anna is just staring at her, eyes squinty and lips pursed.

“Oh, hey, Cas,” Claire says, looking up with a perfectly friendly expression.

“Hello, Claire,” he returns slowly.

“How was your date?”

“It was . . . good.” Most of it was, anyway, and he’s hardly going to rant to his thirteen-year-old niece about his sexual frustrations. “I brought you fries.”

She lights up.

“Sweet. Do you wanna stay and watch something?”

Cas just stares.

When he finally glances back to his sister, she shrugs at him, palms upturned.

“Alright.”

Claire is _suspiciously_ cheerful and well-behaved that evening; he would suspect Anna of deliberate sabotage, but she’s clearly as befuddled by the situation as he is.

Which — Cas would also flat out _ask_ Claire what had happened, but she’s being so nice, and she’s in such a pleasant mood, he can’t bring himself to risk ruining it.

So he chalks it up to teenage mood swings, tries to relax into the rest of the evening, and once they’re home and Claire’s washed up and gone to bed, Cas retreats to his own room and tries not to think about what didn’t happen.

It doesn’t really work.

Anyway, Dean texts him a lot over the next few days, innocent little comments here and there that Cas should probably take at face value, yet he lies awake each night, scrutinizing them for some hint of what Dean might be thinking.

Which is ridiculous, because Cas _knows_ what Dean’s thinking, but he can’t seem to stop _himself_ from thinking about it, too.

 _So, is it gonna be the leather or the trenchcoat or a parka, next time I see you?_ Dean texts him Sunday, and that’s fine, but when Cas tentatively answers with ‘ _Trenchcoat. I don’t own a parka,’_ he gets a ‘ _damn’_ in return.

<< _Why ‘damn?’_

>> _I liked the leather_

_ >> made it easier to get through dinner_

_ << In what way?_

_ >> I don’t feel as desperate to get it off of you_

_***_

Cas locks his door, buries himself beneath his best sound-dampening comforters, and works himself open to a now-familiar fantasy of Dean in his sheriff’s costume, Cas condemned for execution and saved only by the question of where he hid the loot, which happens to include Dean’s most treasured possession.

 _Let me keep it,_ Cas tries to convince him in the fantasy, riding him for all he’s worth on the lumpy, narrow cot in the cell. _Run away with me, and we’ll enjoy it all together._

 _Never,_ Dean hisses back. _Once a thief, always a thief._

And then he yanks Cas’s head down and kisses him anyway, ruthlessly fucking up into him and squeezing at his hips like he never wants to let them go.

Cas comes at the first touch of his own hand on his cock, sweaty and gasping beneath the layers of blankets. He practically has to fight his way free from the tangle afterward, feeling half-suffocated in a way that reminds him of being sixteen, appreciative of having his own room for the first time yet deeply conscious of the fact that the door to said room didn’t have a lock.

On Monday, there’s a playful exchange about students acting out; as a first theory, Dean chalks it up to pre-holiday excitement, before adding:

_ >> well, that or these fuckers don’t respect authority _

_ << I hate to break it to you, but . . . _

_ >> a) like hell you do and b) you’re wrong. You’ve never seen me in action ;)_

To his shame, Cas’s bedtime lullaby that night starts with him a conspicuously grown-up student, guilty over knocking a beloved paperweight off Mr. Winchester’s desk and finding himself in detention when his teacher doesn’t believe it was an accident.

It ends with Dean fucking into him from behind, that red-and-blue tie stuffed in Cas’s mouth while Cas braces one hand against the chalkboard and the other struggles to keep the chalk steady as he writes _I will not make Mr. Winchester sad_ over and over and over again, Dean firmly thrusting into him all the while.

Still, probably the weirdest fantasy happens during a gradual return to consciousness Tuesday morning, muzzy head filled with thoughts of Dean in a _priest’s_ frock, calmly seated on the other side of the booth while Cas confesses his sins. Which, Cas understands priest fantasies are perfectly commonplace for _other_ people, but it’s certainly a new one for him.

Anyway, he ends up having to prove just how penitent he really is, getting on his knees for Father Winchester in a fashion that would certainly get a real priest defrocked and also probably mean Hester never spoke to Cas again, assuming she happened to find out about it.

 _You know, I_ _don’t_ _think_ _you’re truly_ _sorry, Castiel,_ Dean murmurs , staring d own at him as he lightly pushes into Cas’s eager mouth, green eyes cold. _How do you expect to be forgiven, if you don’t really repent?_

Cas ends up making a mess, helplessly rutting against his sheets to thoughts of Dean’s hands gently resting on his head, cock heavy on Cas’s tongue, and by the time he’s snuck the bedding into the wash and gotten ready for work, Claire’s already at the table waiting.

***

“Wow. Good night?” she asks dryly, when he hastens in to try and figure out breakfast, and he trips over a chair leg, so blinded by panic is he.

“I — what — what makes you think that?” he asks, quickly righting it, shin throbbing, and she gives him a weird look.

“You slept late? You’re usually up way before me. And besides — you look less tired.”

Cas clears his throat, busying himself with the toaster while he waits for his heart rate to calm.

“Sorry. But, um, yes. Yes, I — I’ve been sleeping better. Thank you.”

In any case, he’s laughably worked up by the time Wednesday rolls around — not to mention confused over the sudden prominence of authority figures in his fantasies, whether they’re all played by Dean or not — and he’s grateful that they renegotiated for earlier; he’s not sure he could have _survived_ until Saturday, not in any kind of reasonable state.

Claire is oddly insistent that he be home early, since it’s a weeknight, but he readily agrees; worked up or not, after the last date, he has very few expectations _,_ so it shouldn’t be a problem.

Still — he can’t seem to get that short, unsatisfying kiss out of his head. He tries to pick apart every detail of the memory, to somehow gain a sense of how Dean’s mouth feels against his own, now, but it was so frustratingly brief, all Cas can recall is a light sense of pressure, there-and-gone.

Will Dean kiss him again, he wonders? Or will it just be a brief peck, like last time? What does he hope to achieve by teasing Cas to such extremes? Does he even know what he’s done to Cas, how desperate Cas is for any kind of sight or contact, even knowing he’s destined to leave disappointed?

Cas suspects he does.

Anyway, come Wednesday evening, Dean picks Cas up and drives them to Missouri’s, which — he finds it a little suspicious that Dean insists they ride together, now. A small, paranoid part of him even wonders if Dean’s _deliberately_ trapping him in a situation where he has little else to do but stare at the side of Dean’s face and devise more lurid material for his already appalling fantasies.

But maybe a small, paranoid part of him is just projecting.

They haven’t been driving for long when Dean brings the car to a stop at a red light, and something about their surroundings shakes Cas from his thoughts. They’re all familiar, of course — Cas grew up here, after all — but there’s something else about them, something . . .

“Oh.” He stares out the window, to the right, lips parting in surprise.

It’s the turn he always used to take, to drive them over to the hiking trail so they could-

“Somethin’ on your mind?”

Cas starts, glancing over to Dean, who’s smirking.

“Uh. No,” he lies, and Dean slowly nods.

“Yeah? ‘Cause I was just thinkin’ about that trail we used to park by.”

Cas goes scarlet, cursing the eternal red lights of rush hour. He can’t believe they’re both grown-ass adults, well-accustomed to these games (or something like that), and yet his teenage self had still gotten further with Dean by this point.

He suppresses a sigh. At least _he’d_ done Dean the courtesy of moving straight into full-blown makeout sessions.

Dean laughs suddenly, and Cas shoots him a suspicious frown.

“Sorry, I just — I was remembering that day you freaked out on me over there. I decided, afterwards, that you were totally right, and no way in hell could I ever be comfortable having sex in a car.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Man, if I could’ve seen me a few years later.”

And great, now Cas is thinking about all the sex they never got to have in this car (because he was a fucking _idiot_ ), and also wondering if they’re ever going to get to.

Still, he’s not _completely_ pathetic.

“Oh? Are we taking a detour, then?” he deadpans, and is gratified to see Dean falter, head whipping around to stare.

“Uh.” Dean coughs, grip tightening on the steering wheel, mouth opening and closing and far too attractive to be compared to any kind of fish Cas has ever seen. “I, uh . . .”

The car behind them honks, and they both flinch.

With an apologetic wave in the rearview, Dean quickly turns his attention back to driving, and Cas bites back a smile.

Perhaps he’s not entirely alone in his thoughts, after all.

After a moment, Dean clears his throat, cracking a smile.

“That hiking trail’s a terrible place to make out, now, for the record.”

“Really?”

“Hell yeah. It’s twenty-seventeen — do you know how many fuckin’ people go hiking?”

Cas laughs, not expecting it.

But a part of him is still a little disappointed they didn’t end up making the turn.

Dean gives him another one of those maddeningly chaste kisses, lingering for a very pleasant but ultimately unsatisfying hug before he says good night and leaves. Cas tries to come up with a way to invite him in without sounding completely desperate (though he _is_ ), but it’s over and done with before he has a chance.

It wouldn’t have worked anyway, he reminds himself. Claire is home, and even if she saw and heard nothing, it could potentially scar her.

Which would be a shame; Claire seems to be doing better with every day that passes, and Cas just hopes the inevitable blow-up of this thing with Dean won’t have any impact on that progress. As long as he handles himself at home, and Dean’s behavior doesn’t change at school, Cas doesn’t _think_ it should. And it’s embarrassing, how much he’s enjoying himself despite the frustration, but still — he can’t bring himself to reconsider.

Dean texts him Thursday morning, asking if he wants to bring Claire and come see the holiday lights in the public gardens on Saturday, where they’re doing some kind of Winter festival. He’s not expecting Claire to agree, both because he’s the one asking and because it’s the kind of thing Jimmy would have dragged them all out to enjoy, but though she says something to the effect of “Ew, why would I want to be your third wheel?”, she bargains to bring her friends nonetheless.

(This leaves Cas the perfect opening to ask about them, and though she’s stilted and reticent, at first, two hours later they have the pedicure stuff out and she’s chattering away.)

It is a testament to Cas’s frustrated libido, and absolutely not to how much he likes Dean, that he walks around the gardens pretty much in a blissful daze, all because Dean is _holding his hand._

“How you doin’, Cas? Warm enough?” Dean asks about halfway through, and after sparing a brief thought to the overwhelmingly pleasant winter night, Cas affects what he hopes is a suitably-convincing shiver.

“No. I should have bought that parka.”

Dean studies him for a moment, colorful lights leaving him glinting in the dark, and then he smiles.

“C’mere,” he instructs, lifting an arm, and Cas shamelessly tucks into his side with an eagerness his teenage self would be mortified to witness.

All of Claire’s friends do seem nice, to Cas’s relief, and his fears over her reaction to the lights and the festival appear to have been unfounded. She returns to him, radiating pleasure, when it’s time to leave, and he’s not sure he’s seen her smile that much in years.

She positively _beams_ when she sees them shuffle up, Dean’s arm still warm across his shoulders.

They drop off Adam and Patience (Kevin’s mother prefers to drive him herself, and Cas doesn’t blame her) and when they get back home, Dean asks Claire to give them a minute.

She makes a face and reaches for the door.

“Ugh, sure,” she mutters, then pauses once it’s open. “’Night, Mr. W.”

And then she hastens through it, barely leaving an amused Dean time to bid her good night before the door shuts behind her.

Cas looks at him expectantly, once she’s gone, assuming this is where he gets his token kiss for the night.

And Dean _does_ step forward, leaning in — but tonight, it’s nothing like the others.

No, Dean’s hand cups his jaw, the other tugging Cas in by the hip, and then he’s kissing him — for _real._ His mouth actually _moves_ against Cas’s, soft and warm and open, and Cas melts into it, because fuck, _fuck,_ it’s so fucking good. It’s good because Dean is good at this and memory utterly pales in comparison to present reality, but mostly it’s good because it’s _Dean_ and Cas didn’t think he’d ever get to kiss him like this again.

He scrabbles for a hold in Dean’s jacket, buoyed by the realization that this is actually finally happening and desperate to just have Dean closer, but somehow, Dean pulls away before Cas can manage it. There’s an audible whine of despair, deafening in the empty hallway.

Cas is horrified to realize it came from him.

“I should go,” Dean says, and Cas — Cas swears the bastard sounds _amused_.

He’d know for sure, except he can’t quite bring himself to look Dean in the eye.

In fact, it bothers him a little, as he’s trying to fall asleep that night, and even more when he’s assembling spreadsheets the next day. For Dean to be _amused_ by that — for Dean to just break all of the kisses, like it’s nothing to him — _is_ it nothing? Obviously, Cas knows Dean is fully intending to dump him, in the most painful way he can conceive of , at some future date, but — surely _that_ is separate from _this._

Isn’t it?

Or has Cas somehow completely lost all sexual appeal during his three years of abstinence? Is that a thing that even happens? He thinks he looks the same, for the most part, and he’s pretty sure he gets hit on occasionally (though perhaps some of the finer nuances of flirting have fallen prey to his rusty people skills). And he’s sure, sometimes, that Dean is just as distracted by him as he is by Dean. That can’t _possibly_ all be an act, can it?

The idea that through all of this, enduring hatred and bone-deep loathing aside, Dean might not actually be attracted to him is — it’s — well, it’s shattering.

Fine, he concludes grimly, lying awake a second night in a row, tortured by thoughts of Dean’s possible indifference.

There’s only one way to find out.

The more dates they go on, the more Dean is pretty sure he’s somehow died without realizing, and this is _actually_ hell.

And maybe that’s an exaggeration, but he thinks anyone else in his position would agree.

Except _n_ _o_ , it’s really not an exaggeration, because actually _dating_ Cas is giving him vivid flashbacks to being sixteen and wanting to spend eighty percent of his waking hours wrapped around the guy or staring into his stupidly blue eyes or hearing him talk about anything and everything, voice low and rough between them, so-

Yeah. Hell.

Dean reminds himself, at least hourly, like a new fucking personal mantra, to _be patient._ There’s a good reason for this; it’s an important part of the plan, after all, and he’s determined that it will pay out.

And yet, when he’s saying good night to Cas and Cas is looking at him, eyes full of hunger and expectation and other things that make Dean’s spine tingle and his stomach draw tight? There’s not a damn thing in the world that seems like a good enough reason not to follow Cas inside and spend the rest of the night relearning how he kisses.

And maybe learning, for the first time, how he does other things.

Which is a whole _other_ issue.

Now, Dean’s not an idiot, mostly. He knows these kisses are going to have to keep escalating, and now that they’re both all grown up, the endless makeout sessions from teenage Cas’s playbook are going to have to be replaced by sex. Dean’s not happy about it ( _lie_ ), but Cas won’t exactly be heartbroken by the end of a relationship that never went past kissing. He’s practically thirty, a far cry from being as hopeless and naive as Dean had been. He needs to believe what they have is real and special; he needs to feel incredible when they’re together, to feel _completed_ by Dean, to believe they’ll actually _make_ it.

That Dean is _it_ for him.

Which is kind of hard to do if Cas keeps both feet on the ground, literally, at all times.

So, yeah. Dean can tease him for now, work him up (though it’s fucking unfair, because Dean seems to be getting just as worked up himself. He got to thinking about that _noise_ Cas made Saturday night while he was in class, and if Kevin hadn’t asked him to clarify the phrasing on a quiz question, he would have had a problem you _never_ want to have in a room full of your students), but _eventually-_

Eventually, he’s going to have to put his money where his mouth is.

And unfortunately, that — that’s a little daunting. Not that Dean doesn’t often catch himself wondering what the hell he’s waiting for, when it’s all he can do not to drag Cas to the nearest semi-private space he can find and make good on all the teasing, but . . .

The thing is, Dean dated Lisa for a long time, and while there were some wild nights and weekends in there, there’s one thing that never came up, for either one of them; then Dad had died and Dean had had to leave school and figure things out, and Lawrence isn’t _that_ liberal, anyway, and as adventurous as he likes to think he is, some things require a lot of _time_ and _trust_ and-

And, well, when it comes to dudes, Dean maybe never quite got around to, uh, covering all his bases, so to speak. And had he _known_ he’d need these skills — or, you know, even a basic sense of comfort and familiarity with the process from that end — he would have just bitten the bullet and asked Aaron to try switching before Aaron ended their two-month relationship to move to Colorado and open a dispensary. But — he’d thought they’d have _time_ to get there. And if they didn’t, if things ended the way all of Dean’s relationships seemed to, then whatever, right? It’s _sex_ , not a Steam achievement. These things happen when they happen, and if they don’t — well, it doesn’t really matter.

Except this thing _didn’t_ happen, and now it’s going to have to, and even while Dean is painfully turned on by the prospect of him and Cas and nudity and orgasms, whatever the hell has to happen to get them there, he’s also scared out of his fucking mind. If he weren’t already dating Cas, he might seriously try the random stranger route just to get it out of the way, because the idea of going in blind, with _Cas,_ of all people, is just-

Like — Dean’s supposed to be expertly seducing him, right? He’s supposed to be pulling all the strings here, yanking Cas around and turning him to jello, making him _want_ Dean, utterly beyond reason — but how the hell can he do that if he’s a nervous wreck the first time they fuck? He’s _supposed_ to blow Cas’s mind, and if Cas was n’t goddamn Casanovak , destroyer of hearts and most likely asses, too, it’d be no problem. B ut what if — what if Dean’s _bad_ at this? Or what if he’s hopelessly awkward and it completely ruins the mystery and it’s all so uncomfortable Cas just loses interest?

 _What if,_ because of something as stupid as a little bit of overlooked experience, Dean loses the chance to make Cas fall in love with him?

Of course, with _that_ thought hanging over his head, Dean’s basically low-key freaking out all the fucking time, especially as the dates rack up, and p robably the only thing that makes him feel better is how obvious it is, every time they kiss, that Cas wants him, too. _Badly._

And who knows — maybe that will be enough to get them through it without any of Dean’s fears coming to pass, without Cas deciding to cut his losses because ‘a shitty lay’ wasn’t exactly how he pictured his one true love. Dean hopes so, because he doesn’t think either of them can do this much longer, and _whatever_ happens? It’s probably going to happen sooner rather than later.

After all — this is just the price of vengeance, right?

Dean takes him to a movie Wednesday night, after school has let out for break, and actually, Cas enjoys himself quite a bit.

For about thirty minutes.

By the time the popcorn’s gone and they’ve shared a box of milk duds, the plot is starting to move — and so is Dean.

This is fine, Cas reasons. Unexpected, but — fine. It’s not like it doesn’t work with the rest of his plans.

It does prevent him from really registering anything about the movie, however. Dean’s hands are sliding all over him, running through his hair and across his shoulders, and he keeps mouthing at Cas’s ear and jaw and throat, stealing full-on kisses in between. Except every time Cas decides that no, officer, he really _doesn’t_ care about public decency, Dean will pull back, arm settled loosely around Cas’s shoulders, and completely behave himself for about ten or fifteen minutes.

Cas seethes quietly, but there’s not a lot he can do at the moment (he lied, he really doesn’t want to get thrown out of the theater), and it will simply have to wait.

Afterward, Dean carries on a mostly one-sided conversation about the movie which, incredibly, he managed to pay attention to (unless he actually just googled the synopsis at some point, which wouldn’t surprise Cas at all), like he has no idea what he’s doing to Cas and the torturous darkened-theater groping was just a lively hallucination.

Cas consoles himself that once they get to his apartment, the shoe will (hopefully) be on the other foot.

He unlocks the door, but doesn’t go in, fully prepared to put his plan into action and determine, once and for all, whether or not Dean is really affected by him, when suddenly, the good-night kiss comes before he’s expecting it.

And dear _God,_ is it a kiss.

Cas barely has time to register what’s happening before he’s being pushed up against the door, Dean pressing in against him without once breaking the kiss. Cas hopes, briefly, that Claire knows better than to spy through the peephole, but the thought evaporates the instant Dean’s tongue touches his lips, licking at the seam until Cas parts them and _holy shit,_ Dean’s tongue is inside his _mouth_ and suddenly this is the best date _ever._

He moans, embarrassingly loud for the deserted hallway, but he can’t even bring himself to care, because it just makes Dean kiss him harder.

Cas twines his arms around Dean’s neck, latching on greedily, and he’s lost to the wet slide of their mouths and the feel of Dean’s hands on his hips for God only knows how long before abruptly, he remembers his plans.

 _Right_ . Thoughts still a little muzzy, Cas tangles his fingers in Dean’s hair, running them over his scalp the way Dean used to like (and the thought that he might _know_ what Dean likes sends a fresh bolt of lust coursing through him), and then he draws away, dipping down to mouth at Dean’s neck.

(Dean used to like that, too, although not as much as he seemed to enjoy doing it to Cas.)

Dean shudders, fingers tightening around Cas’s hips.

“ _Cas,_ ” he hisses, when Cas starts sucking a mark in place. He’s breathless and squirming a little and oh, God, Cas sincerely hopes he’s not about to be proven for a fool.

Carefully continuing his attentions to Dean’s throat, Cas shifts, maneuvering his right leg between Dean’s and bringing his thigh up to press against his-

Dean leaps away like he’s been burned, eyes wild and face flushed.

“Right, uh, awesome. Yeah. Have a good night, Cas,” he stammers out, and then he trots off like a spooked horse.

Cas sags against the door, trying to catch his breath, and watches him go.

 _Next time,_ he promises himself.

But he’s pretty sure he doesn’t need to worry.

Next time comes two days later, when they have dinner at the Roadhouse. Dean’s friends seemed to have progressed from deep anger to resigned despair, and for the most part, they just leave the two of them alone. The bar is packed, probably due to the holidays, but they share one side of the booth, Dean’s arm slung around him as he speaks directly into Cas’s ear, ducking his head to listen every time Cas says something back, and like this, they manage conversation throughout the loud, busy evening.

Dean saves half his own fries for Claire, and if so many people Dean knows weren’t sitting twenty feet away, Cas probably would have climbed into his lap and kissed him breathless at the gesture.

He doesn’t, but the thought won’t quite leave him as they start driving back, and for the first time in a while, the silence is somewhat awkward.

To Cas, anyway.

“It’s late,” he remarks blandly, desperate to fill it, though it’s true. They were somehow at the Roadhouse for _three hours._

Dean hums in agreement, then pauses, grinning.

“Yeah . . . it’s _late._ ”

Cas is confused by the emphasis, though he’s sure it must mean something, but only until Dean takes a wrong turn and the new route begins to look startlingly familiar.

Dean is either taking him back to his _house,_ which seems a little presumptuous (not that Cas would object) _or_. . .

A short while later, they pull up to the hiking trail.

“I thought you said this wasn’t a good place to make out,” Cas manages, already a little breathless.

Dean slides across the seat, crowding Cas in on his side.

“During _daylight._ But you know, you reminded me — we don’t have curfews anymore.”

Dean apparently thinks that’s adequate explanation, because he wastes no time in pressing his lips to Cas’s after that, one hand gripping his thigh and his other arm snaking behind Cas’s neck to cushion it when his head falls back.

It’s all absolutely splendid, but something’s missing, and when Cas’s brain helpfully reminds him of that clever idea from the restaurant, he grabs a fistful of Dean’s shirt-front for balance and shifts onto his knees, swinging one over Dean’s lap so he can settle into it and _ohhh,_ that’s _way_ better, because now nobody’s neck is turned funny and more of them is touching and Dean lets out this happy little groan, wrapping both arms around Cas’s waist and holding him close and really, Cas thinks it might be okay to just die like this, if it comes to that.

“God _damn_ it, Cas,” Dean whispers when they break apart, and Cas practically preens. He was good at this, once — _great,_ even — and he can’t think of a time when he’s been more grateful for those skills.

He leans back down, ready to continue, but Dean has other ideas; he reaches up, threading his fingers through Cas’s hair and gently tugging his head to the side, and then he’s mouthing along Cas’s neck, breathtakingly gentle when all Cas wants is to _feel_ it.

“Dean,” he chokes out, pulling at his shirt, and Dean seems to understand, nosing aside his shirt collar and sealing his mouth over the skin well beyond its usual boundary. Cas is pretty sure it’s the same spot Dean left the last hickey he’d given him, before things had ended in such disaster, and he grips Dean’s shoulders, clinging tight because God help him, he doesn’t ever want this to end.

The hand not holding his head in place moves to slide beneath his t-shirt, mapping out the planes of his back and then scraping blunt fingernails down the same path, leaving Cas trembling in its wake.

He bites his lip to keep from crying out, and it’s as if his hips start moving of their own volition.

Dean pulls back with a curse.

“We’re going to my house,” he announces hoarsely, and Cas responds with an eager nod, because that sounds like an _excellent_ idea, and keeps on kissing him.

Dean makes a funny noise, grabbing at his hips.

“Cas — Cas, buddy — you’ve gotta get off me,” he pleads, though somewhere amid the desperation, there’s a tinge of amusement.

Cas blinks. Ah. Right.

Reluctantly, he slides back into his own seat. Dean’s house is only a few minutes away, he reasons. He can wait.

He distracts himself from the journey by staring openly at Dean, because Dean is incredibly beautiful and since Cas is pretty sure they’re about to have wild, uninhibited sex in his living room, it’s probably not that strange a thing to do, is it?

Dean cracks up a couple minutes in.

“Dude, _seriously_? Take a picture.”

It takes Cas a moment to understand, and he scowls.

“It was either stare or start touching you, and you seem to take threats to your vehicle very seriously.”

Dean sighs, giving the dashboard a fond pat.

“No, no, you’re right. Good call.”

 _Ridiculous,_ Cas thinks.

He takes a moment to envy Dean’s relative calm, given the situation, but stops when they get to the house and Dean practically flings himself out of the car, hurrying around to haul Cas up and out. The moment the passenger door is shut, Cas finds himself backed up against it, being kissed within an inch of his life.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Dean mutters, then grabs his hand and drags him to the house.

Perhaps not so calm after all, Cas decides, and follows him inside without a second thought.

Dean’s almost afraid he’s dreaming — he’s pretty sure he’s had this one before, more than a few times — but even so, he never wants to wake up.

Despite their haste to get inside, it’s five minutes of gloriously intense making out before they even reach the couch, and another several after that before Dean maneuvers them so they’re horizontal and honestly, Dean is so out of his fucking mind with _want_ and _glee_ and a profound sense of _rightness_ that he’s forgotten what he was ever even worried about.

As it turns out, itshould have been the least of his concerns.

His brain is a frenzied, chaotic battlefield of _more skin — no, more kissing — god damn it, just touch him,_ and when the conflict causes him to pull back, eyes roving over Cas as he tries to name a victor, Cas just — stares up at him with something like _awe_ in his dazed blue eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes out, and something in Dean’s chest lurches before he remembers that they’re having a really hot makeout session right now, and it’s just a thing people say. It doesn’t actually _mean_ anything.

And besides, Dean _is_ beautiful. His plan would never be working, otherwise.

He smirks, sobered by the reminder, and starts pulling Cas’s shirt free from where it’s tucked in.

He can see Cas’s stomach twitch beneath it at the first brush of his fingers.

“Right?” Dean winks. “Makes this a hell of a lot more fun for you than it used to be, doesn’t it?”

But somehow — it’s the wrong thing to say.

Cas doesn’t laugh, or even roll his eyes. Instead, he tenses underneath Dean, and that gorgeous, blissed-out expression twists, turning almost — crestfallen.

“Dean — it was always—"

And yeah, no. Cas shouldn’t even bother.

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Dude — I was there in the diner that day, remember? It’s a little late to deny it. Anyway — it doesn’t matter, man. I’m over it.”

Dean lifts his brows suggestively, ignoring the weird, uncomfortable feeling in his gut, and leans forward with a grin.

“Or maybe I’m on _top_ of it.”

Again, Cas doesn’t laugh, doesn’t huff in exasperation at Dean’s nonsense — doesn’t really do much of anything. He just stares for a long moment, and then he closes the distance, not to kiss Dean, but to tuck his face against Dean’s neck, grasping the front of his shirt and holding him in place.

And it’s especially weird, because a moment later, Dean’s sure Cas must be drooling or something, because for a second, he swears he feels something kind of _damp_ against his skin, Cas’s lashes brushing over it, breath warm and strained where it quietly puffs against Dean’s throat,

They stay like that, still and silent, and even though nothing’s happening anymore, Dean’s heart is pounding; he’s just starting to wonder if — if maybe he _should_ say something, if maybe this isn’t — if Cas might be-

But then Cas suddenly pulls back, just enough to press his lips to Dean’s, kiss fierce in a way they haven’t been, and whatever thoughts Dean’s been having fly out the window.

It goes on like that for a while, Dean helplessly pressing closer, Cas’s hands almost desperate in their exploring, clutching at him every time they find solid purchase, and Dean feels fucking _drunk_ on it, on the heat, on the closeness, on the sensation of finally being so badly _wanted,_ by _Cas._ Cas is kissing him, ruthless and needing both, and Dean opens to that, licks back inside his mouth and fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, hands greedy for skin until Cas is pushing up against him and gasping and Dean forces himself to move away, directing his attentions to Cas’s jaw and throat and collarbone and chest.

Cas just grips his shoulders, whispering Dean’s name as Dean trails fevered kisses down the miles of beautiful skin, all of it his for the touching, straight toward a destination Cas seems to find spectacularly exciting, if the sounds he’s making are anything to go by, and just when Dean is ready to peel back another layer, blood rushing in his ears and heart about ready to launch itself out of his chest, Cas tenses — and not in a good way. Of course, Dean pulls back, about to ask-

But then Cas is scrambling up the sofa before he can so much as get a word out, leaving nothing but air and sofa cushion in his wake, and Dean just sort of looks up at him in a bewildered stupor.

“I have to leave now,” Cas gasps out, chest heaving, and staggers to his feet.

It takes a moment, Dean blinking as he tries to interpret that any other way than how it sounded, but — no; it definitely looks like Cas is done here, is hastily moving _away_ from him, ready to leave altogether, and suddenly this is the worst thing to ever happen to Dean — mostly because it already _has._

He swears the room fades, a little, Cas younger and smaller, cool and disheveled, pulling away from him in the car, disentangling himself in the classroom, cringing under Dean after shoving his hands away, panic and guilt plain in his face.

 _Don’t you want me_?

Cas might not have _said_ ‘no,’ but Dean had read it, loud and clear, in his eyes, and he swears to God it’s what he sees now, too.

Shame rushes through him, for both the past and the present, and just — no. No fucking way, not _again._

“Christ, Cas,” he snaps, an angry, humiliated flush burning at his cheeks. “ _What_ ? Y ou still don’t wanna sleep with me? Is that it? For fuck’s sake, n ext you’ll tell me all the dates and the kiss es w ere a lie again, too, and then _maybe_ I can finally wake up from this goddamn recurring nightmare!”

Cas’s hands freeze where they’re hastily rebuttoning his shirt, and he looks at Dean, shocked and — and _crushed_. It’s a look that pulls at something deep within, and Dean wants to feel bad, to take it back, but everything else about Cas right now screams ‘I just got laid,’ but he _didn’t_ and it certainly wasn’t because of Dean and Dean just — he doesn’t understand.

What the hell is so wrong with him that even now, after everything, Cas won’t — he doesn’t-

“I — that’s not — Dean, I just — Claire is at Kevin’s. I said I’d pick her up at nine.”

Dean just stares for a moment, and then finally, he glances at the mantle clock, which reads-

8:57.

“Oh.”

A part of him feebly clings to its rage, suggesting this must be some elaborate lie, meant to humiliate him, to remind him just who holds all the cards here, who always _has_ , but mostly — mostly he just feels like an ass.

Because he is, isn’t he? He just yelled at Cas for not sticking around for sex, basically, which is pretty much one of the most widely-agreed upon definitions of ‘ass.’

And yeah, it’s more complicated than that — Dean’s not sure it would be melodramatic to say he’s kind of traumatized — but _still._

This is no way to make anyone fall in love with you, that’s for fucking sure.

“Right. Yeah, no — fuck. I’m an idiot. Sorry.”

“You’re not,” Cas says, hesitant. “I know that I—"

“Dude, nope.” Dean gives him a pained smile. “I really am. You, uh, you should go pick up Claire.”

Cas frowns, but after a moment, nods.

“Okay.”

Anyway, Dean forces himself to get up and walk him to the door, although really, he just wants to go to bed and hide beneath the blankets and never, ever come back out.

“Thank you for dinner,” Cas says, once he’s got his coat on. Dean hopes he straightens himself out before he goes to the Trans’ door, because he still looks like — well, suffice to say, the part of Dean that isn’t rapidly bleeding out from embarrassment is still super fucking disappointed Cas has to go.

“Sure. I, uh, had a good time. Aside from me being crazy at the end,” he jokes, and Cas looks down.

“You weren’t. You’re not,” he amends quietly, and Dean’s really not sure where to go from here, but then Cas is stepping back into his space, tipping his chin up and giving Dean a firm kiss before moving away again.

“I don’t want to go pick up Claire,” he announces, looking at Dean intently. “I want to stay here with you. I want to finish what we started.”

Dean swallows, taken aback by his bluntness, though not in a bad way.

“Oh. That, uh. That’d be nice.”

“Another time,” Cas insists, holding his gaze.

“O-okay. Yeah.”

“Good night, Dean.”

“’Night, Cas.”

Dean watches until the Lincoln turns the corner, then goes back inside.

And then he heads straight for bed and halfheartedly tries to smother his own dumb ass out of existence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * SPOILERS *
> 
> Sexual Content (masturbation, anal fingering, anal sex, riding, gagging, oral sex, western fantasy, teacher/student fantasy, priest fantasy): This section deals with a number of fantasies a sexually-frustrated Cas has about Dean as he waits for their next date (these fantasies are largely meant to be a comedic reflection of Cas’s sub-conscious guilt and desire for absolution). In the first Western-themed fantasy, Dean is the sheriff delaying Cas’s execution until Cas admits where he hid the stolen goods, among which is a treasured possession of Dean’s; Cas rides him, attempting to convince him to let Cas keep the loot and run away with Cas to enjoy it together. In the second fantasy, Cas is a student of Dean’s who has accidentally broken a cherished paperweight, and is given detention. Dean gags him with his tie and penetrates him from behind while Cas repeatedly writes ‘I will not make Mr. Winchester sad’ on the chalkboard. In the third fantasy, Dean is a priest to whom Cas is confessing his sins. Cas ends up having to try and prove his feelings of repentance by performing oral sex. He ends up running late getting ready after having to put his sheets in the wash, and Claire is already waiting at the breakfast table. 
> 
> Character thinking sex is required to make a relationship serious: In comparing his strategy now to Cas’s, Dean concludes that sex is a necessary part of developing a relationship between them that Cas will treat as significant enough to be equivalently hurt by its loss; this is, once again, just a reflection of Dean’s insecurity. While the trust and intimacy involved in sex can sometimes be a significant milestone or component of a relationship, the sex itself is not what makes the relationship serious. All people are devastated by the loss of relationships they have emotionally invested in, whatever the nature of those relationships are and whatever else is involved in them. Sex is not a requirement, nor is a physical element a guarantee that a relationship is ‘more serious.’
> 
> Insecurity over sexual inexperience: Dean, expecting that sex is a necessary escalation, is daunted by the prospect, taking it as a given that Cas will expect to top (you may refer back to the story notes. Again, this is a baseless and nonsensical assumption; in this respect, as well as others, Dean is so used to thinking of himself as the awkward nerd to Cas’s smoldering bad boy, he’s failing to use his adult reasoning and understanding to examine the situation and establish appropriate expectations/considerations). Bottoming with a partner is a skillset he has not had the opportunity to develop, and he worries that being bad in bed because of it could cause Cas to lose interest.
> 
> That said, a relationship with Aaron that ended up being too brief for Dean to feel comfortable trying to switch is referenced, and it’s implied that that discomfort is the primary factor in his lack of experience (though his present concerns are focused on failing to perform for Cas). That discomfort is not with the idea of being someone who bottoms; his hangups are about personally feeling a certain level of trust and comfort with a partner is required for him to feel okay about trying that, which is perfectly understandable, though also not a broader commentary on how most people do/should feel about this or any other kind of sex. Comfort levels are always going to vary, and the important thing is to respect yours and those of any partners in all you do.
> 
> On that note, while there are going to be differences between partnered sex and solo sex, self-exploration is always a great place to start; this story does not specifically say one way or the other what self-exploration Dean has or hasn’t conducted on his own time, but again, especially in a situation like this, taking the time to explore on one’s own first is an important option to consider.
> 
> Character getting upset about sex not happening: After an extremely heated makeout session, Dean has started undressing Cas and it’s implied that he’s getting ready to perform oral when Cas scrambles away and says he has to leave. Dean has a sort of flashback to the incident in high school, when he realized Cas didn’t want to have sex with him, as well as all the other times Cas must have been deliberately avoiding his advances. He has an outburst, during which he suggests Cas is about to say things were all a lie again, so that Dean can then ‘wake up from this recurring nightmare.’
> 
> Dean’s hangups are understandable, but as he himself acknowledges, this is not an acceptable response to someone opting not to have sex. That is a lot of pressure and accusation to throw at Cas, and while it’s fair for Dean to talk about his hurt over past events, it’s not fair for him to get angry at Cas for not wanting to sleep with him or to apply pressure to do so, be it in the form of wrath, guilt or whatever.


	22. Part II: and the pressure on your lungs is just too much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Dean continuing to feel that sex is a necessary step in securing Cas’s affections, Claire having the idea that sex might help fix other relationship problems (this is deeply flawed reasoning), suggestive scene in the context of erotica, borderline harassment (details in notes), brief reference to kink in a fictional context (handcuffs, Dom Dean/Sub Cas (sort of, details in the notes if you’re concerned)), light discussion of faith (details in the notes, as always, I’m not an authority, and things like this are very individual), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> I hope you’re all safe and well ♡ Thank you very much for reading, and please enjoy!

> _To say I love you is too strong_
> 
> _But you are all I want . . ._
> 
> _\- All I Want, Alok & Liu ft. Stonefox_

Mrs. Tran insists on coming to the door with her; Claire’s pretty sure she’s going to lecture Cas for being ten minutes late, and frankly, she’s okay with that.

Until it opens and she sees Cas, that is, at which point things stop being okay and she wishes she had a towel or something to throw over Mrs. Tran’s head while Cas runs back to the car.

“Dude,” she whispers, cringing, because if she can tell, Kevin’s Mom _definitely_ can.

Cas is — well, Cas is a _mess._ Even in the crappy porch lighting, Claire can tell his shirt’s not buttoned right, there’s a bit of it untucked and askew, and his trench coat is shifted so badly to one side the bottom of the right lapel is practically at his belly button. She doesn’t know what happened to his tie, and she really doesn’t want to.

And don’t even get her _started_ on his hair. She didn’t think it was _possible_ for it to look this much worse.

Damn it; she should have insisted on _eight._

“Good evening, Castiel,” Mrs. Tran says, still friendly, but definitely with a little shade.

“Hello, Linda. I’m so sorry I’m so late, my, uh — my dinner went over.”

Claire rolls her eyes. Like anybody is going to believe _that._

“Of course, I understand. But you should know, Kevin is on a very strict schedule, and even ten minutes can have a serious negative impact on his routine.”

“Yes, absolutely — I promise it won’t happen again. And thank you so much for having Claire — again, I apologize for being so late to pick her up.”

“It’s alright,” she says, apparently mollified. “I hope you had a nice dinner.”

Claire tilts her head, surreptitiously inspecting Mrs. Tran’s expression for any sign that she’s being sarcastic or making fun of Cas, or that she at least recognizes what he must have been up to, but there’s nothing. She looks like she genuinely hopes Cas had a nice _dinner,_ zero implications anywhere in there.

She wonders if that’s because Mrs. Tran is as naive as Kevin is, or if it’s because her poker face is _that_ good.

Claire decides it’s probably the latter.

Anyway, she appreciates it. This could have been a lot more embarrassing for her, otherwise.

Once they’ve left — Claire’s already said goodbye to Kevin, since he had to go upstairs at nine and start getting ready for bed — she rounds on Cas.

“It’s a school night,” she reminds him unhappily. Hopefully _whatever_ he did, he didn’t mess this up.

“You’re on break.” His voice comes out clipped, and she frowns. Would he be this grumpy if anything _good_ had happened?

Oh, God — what if — what if Cas is a mess because they _fought_? She’s not even sure what they could fight about that would devolve into fisticuffs, but Cas looks tired and upset and when he leans forward to turn the key in the ignition, she thinks she sees a dark mark underneath his flagrantly open collar.

It’s a hickey, right? Like, it’s hard to believe her teacher and her uncle are giving each other hickeys, but there’s no way Mr. W _hit_ Cas, right? Even if they did get into an argument, they couldn’t possibly have started _brawling._

Right?

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” she says, trying to sound sarcastic, but it comes out a little unsure.

Cas sighs.

“Don’t worry about it, Claire.” He sounds so _gloomy._

“Did you — you guys didn’t fight, right?”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes on the road.

“Not exactly.”

What? _What_ ? That’s not what she expected _or_ wanted to hear. What does that even _mean_?

_Crap._

“Uh. You — is everything . . . okay?”

“Yes,” he says, and this time, he sounds determined. She relaxes for a moment. “We’ll figure it out.”

Or not.

It’s all she can do not to start banging her head against the glove box. What did he _do_ ? Or what did _Dean_ do? Claire doesn’t even know who to blame, but she’s sure it’s not normal for two people to clearly like each other _that much,_ go on several really nice dates _,_ and then get into a _fight._ Something must be wrong with one of them.

And to think, she was worried they’d move too fast.

Ugh, maybe if they’d moved faster, this wouldn’t have happened. Claire doesn’t know anything about relationships beside what she’s seen in books and movies and her parents, but Mom and Dad got married when they were sixteen, and she’s pretty sure that’s not normal, either.

It was probably Cas, she decides glumly. She wasn’t lying when she told Dean she can’t _ever_ remember him being in a relationship. Of course Cas has no clue what he’s doing — she should have foreseen the problems with that to begin with. This isn’t some fairytale where her uncle was just waiting for his prince to come; his prince _already_ came, and he screwed it up, and even now that he has a second chance, he clearly has no idea what to _do_ with a prince in the first place.

“How was your evening?” he asks, and Claire shakes free of her thoughts. He’s smiling now, small but there, and Claire had actually had a pretty good evening until she started having to worry about Cas’s boy problems.

“Uh. Pretty good. Kevin’s mom made us bran muffins—" and they’re really growing on Claire, even if they taste a little weird at first — “and we watched _Finding_ _Nemo_.”

Cas raises a brow.

“You were okay with that?”

“It’s a _classic._ ”

He hums.

“I’m jealous, I think.”

“I’ll watch it again with you, if it means that much,” she jokes, although if Cas is still down in the morning, she’ll definitely do it. They can get snacks and go to Anna’s. _Everybody_ likes that movie, although Dory makes Anna cry every time.

“Maybe sometime over break,” Cas agrees, missing the humor, and then his eyes go far away again.

Rats. This is _not good._

Cas gives her a takeout box once they’re home, which she accepts eagerly, despite the air of malaise in the room.

She’s surprised when she opens it.

“That’s . . . a lot of fries.”

If anything, Cas looks even sadder.

“Dean contributed half of his.”

Claire gapes.

He — he _did_?

Like, Claire knows it would probably make more sense to just get an order to go for her, but she never says anything. It’s kind of childish — or maybe just messed up — but the fact that Cas goes without (even though she knows he likes them pretty well, too), carefully saving them for her instead, makes her feel a lot better about things, for some reason.

And if Mr. W did it, too — well — she’s not even sure why _Cas_ does, really, especially since he’s not stupid and she’s pretty sure fries are within the budget, and it must have occurred to him that he could just order an extra ; for _Mr. W_ to save some for her like that . . .

No way in _hell_ is she going to let Cas mess this up, she decides.

Anyway _,_ Cas continues to seem distracted and sad the next day , although he keeps getting texts, which seem to make his mood pick up for a while after each round . That suggests _Dean_ isn’t doing anything to make him sad, which means–

The problem must be internal.

Claire’s not sure whether that makes this easier, or harder. She awkwardly asks him if he’s okay a couple times, getting a warm smile and a ‘Yes, thank you, Claire,’ both times, but he doesn’t seem interested in talking about it.

And while they’re still texting, and it’s making Cas happy, there’s still the matter of the maybe-fight they had after their date. Cas said they’d ‘figure it out,’ so even if they’re still dating, that doesn’t change the fact that there’s something to figure out in the first place.

But what could it even be?

Cas — Cas _did_ have to leave to go pick up Claire. There’s no way Dean was mad about that, right? But then, Cas hasn’t had any nights to himself since they started dating, and even though Claire worried it was too soon, maybe she’s wrong? Maybe instead, she’s just making it seem like Cas doesn’t have _time_ for a relationship, like Claire’s always going to be getting in the way.

This thought torments her for several hours, because yeah, of course she’s in the way; she’s known that since Cas had to take her in. But — she’s not _that_ in the way. She goes to Grandma’s and Anna’s; Cas can have a life. And she didn’t mean to interfere with his dates and make it seem like that was the rule, rather than the exception. She just — she just wanted them to do this thing _right,_ since they didn’t before.

And — well, she kinda thought Mr. W didn’t mind her so much. Like, she’s pretty sure she’s his favorite student, even though it’s not like he hates all his other ones, and she just assumed that he liked her as a person, and maybe even a friend, too.

Maybe she shouldn’t have.

But then she finally remembers that he saved _half his fries_ for her, and she feels like an idiot . The fact that it was only half means he _likes_ his fries, so it was definitely a sacrifice, and you wouldn’t do that if you were annoyed somebody existed, right?

God, relationships are _exhausting,_ even when they’re not your own.

But if it’s not Claire — and she hopes it’s not — then she’s not sure what it _is_.

Unless . . . does it have to do with everything that happened before?

A decade seems like forever, to her, but what happened also seems like a pretty big deal. Maybe now that they’re dating again, it’s causing — well, issues. She’d thought, if they got to this point in the first place, then they must have worked all of that out, but — maybe not. Maybe it’s making things fragile.

And if things are fragile — they’ve gotta do something to make them stronger, right?

By the time Claire meets her friends at _The_ _Rookery_ that night, she has her mind made up about how they can fix this.

“Hey, Patience?” she asks, without preamble, the moment they snag the table in the loft.

“Yes?”

Patience waits, open and expectant, and suddenly Claire feels unsure. They’ve really only been doing this friend thing for a few weeks, and she doesn’t want to overstep boundaries and offend her, or become a nuisance because Patience is too nice to say no, even though she wants to.

It seemed like such a good plan two hours ago, but now her face feels hot and she feels shy and twitchy and _ugh,_ she should have thought this through harder.

“Claire? What’s up?” She’s starting to look concerned, because she’s nice like that, which just makes Claire even more worried that if she’s being too pushy, Patience won’t just _tell_ her.

But then she remembers how often Patience snaps at Adam since he can kind of be a jerk sometimes, and she decides that no matter how nice Patience is, she’s still not gonna let somebody walk on her.

Although — she might decide she doesn’t like them, which — well, that would be sort of awful — but you know what? Claire decided she was going to do this, and she’s doing it for _Cas,_ besides, so she better just suck it up and _do it._

“Can I sleep over at your house Saturday night?”

Patience blinks, startled — and then she smiles.

Claire stares at that smile, a little suspicious, but it seems totally genuine.

“Yeah — that sounds like a lot of fun. God, I haven’t had a sleepover in years.”

Claire nearly sags in relief — and then perks up. Patience is right; Claire hasn’t, either, and she was so busy trying to figure out how to make herself totally out of the way without Cas thinking it was weird (even if Cas wouldn’t question it if she volunteered to stay overnight at Anna’s, Anna and Val would be curious, and if she tells _them_ what she’s up to, who knows what they’ll say) that she didn’t actually think about what the plan would entail.

Now that she has, though, she’s kind of excited — especially because Patience looks like she is, too.

“Hey, I want to go to a sleepover.”

“Have one with Kevin,” Patience shoots back, and shares a look with Claire.

“Kevin’s mom won’t let him have sleepovers,” Adam complains, unperturbed. “Well, he and I can come for a movie beforehand, at least.”

“Please, Adam, invite yourself over,” Patience sighs, and Claire smirks at him. He raises his brows at her.

“Claire did it.”

“No, she _asked._ ”

“I was basically asking.”

“Oh, my god.” She crosses her arms, but she looks amused. “Fine, you guys can probably come for a movie. I’ll have to ask my dad, though. His office party might be Saturday night — I can’t remember — so we might have to do it the night after.”

“We can’t,” Claire says quickly, and Patience gives her a strange look.

“. . . Why not?”

“Well . . .” Claire clears her throat. “Cas and Mr. W have a date Saturday night.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It — I just — I _thought,_ if I stay the night at yours, Cas doesn’t have to worry about me and they can, you know—" She makes a face. “Seal the deal.”

Patience’s brow furrows.

“So . . . that’s why you wanted to stay over,” she states flatly.

“Yeah,” Claire agrees, but then Patience gets this pinched look and oh, _God,_ Claire’s an idiot. “No! No, I want to have a sleepover with you, I just—"

Adam whistles, and Claire kicks him under the table.

“Ow,” Patience says, face darkening even further, and Claire sort of wants to crawl into a hole and die.

“Look, I really, _really_ want to have a sleepover with you, and I don’t care what day it is. But no, I probably wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t trying to help Cas out.” Claire huffs, rubbing a pencil mark on the table. “I wasn’t really sure if you’d even want to.”

There’s a long silence. Claire’s sort of surprised Adam doesn’t have some smartass remark to fill it, but he’s not _really_ a jerk. He can probably tell now’s not the time.

“Well, I do. If you _actually_ want to.”

Claire’s head snaps up.

“I do!” she says eagerly, and Patience cracks a small smile.

“Alright. I’ll see what I can do. Although — I thought you didn’t want them to sealthedeal yet?”

Claire looks away.

“I didn’t. But — they’ve been on a bunch of dates, so it’s probably okay? And . . .” she chews at her lip. “I think they’re having problems — not a lot, but maybe a little — and I thought maybe that would fix it.”

“Can’t hurt,” Adam offers agreeably, but Patience’s brows fly up.

“Um, I have to disagree. That’s . . . _really_ not a good solution. Remember in health class, when they had Sheriff Mills come in—"

“Yep,” Claire interrupts, not really wanting to hear the lecture again. It was awkward as hell for everyone except Kevin, who just found it ‘unsettling but informative.’ Mr. W overheard them, and according to him, Ms. Mills has been coming in to do the ‘health’ lesson since she graduated from the police academy. He said they’d thank her later, but Claire’s not sure about that.

(She did think Ms. Mills was pretty cool, though.)

“Okay, then you remember what she said about good reasons to—"

“ _Yep,_ ” Claire repeats. “And their reasons are up to them. I’m just saying that _I_ think it might help. I’m the one who interfered in the first place, right? Actually, didn’t _you_ say I shouldn’t?”

Patience frowns.

“She has a point,” Kevin interjects helpfully, and Claire almost jumps; she’d thought he was reading. “They’re grown ups. Who knows what they’ll decide to do? They’ll probably just end up eating ice cream and watching the History Channel, like my mom sometimes does after I go to bed on weekends.”

Claire is pretty sure that’s not what they’re gonna do, but she doesn’t want to burst Kevin’s bubble.

Eventually, Patience sighs, but there’s a little smile on her face, so Claire’s pretty sure-

“Alright. I’ll ask my Dad if you can stay Saturday, party or not.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Claire says, beaming.

“I mean, I think you’re insane,” she continues emphatically, “Not to mention this will probably blow up in your face — _but,_ it’s really sweet, that you’re trying to make your Uncle happy.”

It’s a backhanded compliment, but Claire will take it. She grins at her.

“’Do or do not,’” she quotes. “’There is no try.’”

“Bitch!” Dean calls happily. Several people in the airport turn to glower at him.

Which, yeah — that’s fair.

He shoots them an apologetic look and braces himself for the incoming hug, Sam barreling towards him with a grin.

“You’re in public, jerk,” he says, and then wraps his creepy long arms around Dean and squeezes.

They walk to the car, chatting about the flight, and once Dean has Sam’s suitcase wrestled into the trunk, they drive off.

Sam waits about five minutes, until Dean’s done navigating tricky airport traffic to get on the highway headed home, before he apparently decides Dean can be gently interrogated without crashing the Impala.

“ _So . . ._ ” he begins. “How’re things with Cas?”

“Oh, I see. Not even gonna small-talk me first?”

“Dude, I’ve been small-talking you for _weeks_.”

“And here I thought we were having conversations.”

Sam gives him a look.

“You know what I mean.”

“You could’ve asked over the phone, you know.”

“I could have, but I want to make sure you don’t lie.”

“Like you could tell.”

Sam smirks.

“Honestly? I probably _could_ have just asked over the phone.”

Dean grunts, changing lanes. He’s pretty sure Sam will know he’s gone to the right lane so he can focus on the conversation better, just in case he does need to lie, but it’s better than having some jackass crawling up his bumper because Sam’s a nosy bitch.

“Things with Cas are, you know, whatever.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you _think_ it means?”

Sam opens his mouth, looking very serious about his answer, and Dean’s suddenly afraid to hear it. He clears his throat.

“Anyway, it just means, you know. Things are . . . I mean, they’re not . . . but, uh. Yeah.”

He can feel Sam staring.

“Okay.”

Dean sighs.

“We’re dating, now,” he mumbles, neck warm, and he’s not really sure what he’s embarrassed about. In theory, he should be crowing over his victory to the doubting Thomas in the passenger seat, and yet — it just comes out quiet and uncomfortable.

“Why’d you say it like that?” Sam asks, instantly suspicious. “And weren’t you, already?”

“You know we weren’t. And I didn’t say it like anything.” He totally did, but if he can’t explain himself to himself, he doubts he can explain it to his brother. Not to mention Sam’ll want to pick it apart and try and work through Dean’s feelings, but Sam’s too biased against Cas to come up with any answer other than ‘This is a bad idea and you should never speak to him again.’

Like Dean’s going to do _that._ They’re just getting to the good part.

Except not, because the good part is when Dean gets to break his heart — obviously — but this thing they’re doing now, with the dates and the holding hands and the kissing and Cas looking him dead in the eye and telling him he wants to stay — it’s kind of great, too, deeply satisfying to some part of Dean he hadn’t realized wasn’t.

Probably because of the aforementioned heartbreak it’s leading up to, he guesses.

“Yes, you did,” Sam insists, and dear _God,_ he even _sounds_ twelve again.

“Okay, then. How did I supposedly say it?”

Sam frowns.

“Like you were embarrassed.”

“Why would I be embarrassed?” Dean protests, because he’s _not_ embarrassed, not really; it’s just — it’s awkward to talk about.

“That’s what I’m _saying._ This is the plan, right? And it doesn’t mean anything. So — you should be happy about it, or you should be complaining about how much it sucks, but instead you’re . . . embarrassed.”

“I’m not. I’m happy.” And Dean _is_ , despite his worries about what could happen when they don’t get interrupted. As freaked out about it as he is, that fiasco Wednesday night taught him that _fuck it,_ he’s doing this, and he’s doing it as soon as he can.

_Another time._

He suppresses a shiver.

“Dean.” Sam sounds annoyed. “ _Dean._ ”

“What?”

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“You — drifted off.”

“’Cause you’re being boring.”

“That wasn’t your ‘Sam-is-being-boring-face.’”

“I don’t have a—"

“Are you sleeping with him?”

“ _Jesus,_ Sam!” Dean’s face goes hot. “Let a guy have some privacy, would you?”

“Dean, you’ve told me — in unsolicited, explicit detail — about your sex life multiple times in the past. All I asked is if you _were_ , not _how_ you were doing it. And please, don’t tell me.”

“Well, for your information, I’m actually _not_ sleeping with him yet.”

He realizes his mistake as soon as Sam’s expression contorts into Bitch Face Number Anguished Clown.

“ _Yet_ ?” He squawks. “You aren’t _seriously_ going to—"

“I have to!”

“No, you _don’t_! Sex is one of the few things nobody is ever supposed to _have_ to do! Don’t you remember Jody—"

“ _Yes,_ the whole fuckin’ town remembers getting the talk from Jody. Swear to god she still tries to review me every time we see her.”

“Okay, then you know that you don’t have to have sex with Cas.”

“Sure, if I want everything I’ve been doing here to be a _waste of time._ ”

“ _He_ didn’t sleep with you when he did it!” Sam protests, and Dean scowls.

“Oh, my _god,_ why the hell do I even tell you these things?”

“Dean, I’m just saying — you don’t need to — to _compromise_ yourself for your plan to work.”

“Yes, I do! We’re _adults,_ Sam. If I don’t sleep with him, he’s not going to take the relationship seriously, and he’s not going to care that much when it ends. And I’m not compromising myself! It’s not like I don’t _want_ to sleep with him!”

Sam’s spine snaps straight.

“I _knew_ it!” He sounds more horrified than vindicated. “You _like_ him!”

Dean’s heart stops for a second.

But just a second; then he snorts.

“Shit, Sam, maybe you should’ve listened harder to Jody. You know you don’t have to like someone to wanna—"

“Shut up. And yes, I’m aware. But that’s not what’s happening here. What’s happening here is that _asshole_ fucked with your head then and you’re _letting him do it again._ ”

“I’m not—"

“Because Dean, _no._ You _don’t_ have to sleep with him for him to take the relationship seriously, or to fall for you. You’re _awesome_ , Dean, and when you’re at your best, people respond to that.”

“If by ‘that,’ you mean my face, then yeah—"

“That! _That’s_ your problem. You let Cas make you think you weren’t worth caring about, as a person, and sometimes — sometimes I think finishing puberty was the worst thing to ever happen to you, because now you think what’s on the outside is _all_ you have to offer, even though we all keep _telling_ you—" And here, Sam pauses and honest-to-god sniffs. “But you’re wrong, Dean. There’s way more to you than how you look, and it’s enough, for anyone who bothers to pay attention. And it’s not fair to _you_ to keep playing this stupid game with Cas. You deserve better than—"

“That’s enough,” Dean interjects, face hot. “Thanks, Sammy, you’re my number one fan and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. But I’ve got a plan and I’m sticking to it, and when all is said and done? I’m gonna come out of this happier than I’ve been in _years_. I know it. So — end of discussion.”

Sam inhales slowly, drawing himself up — but in the end, all that comes out is a terse ‘fine.’

There’s silence for a good ten minutes, before Dean starts feeling guilty, because while Sam might not get it, he _is_ just trying to look out for Dean, and even though he has this skewed, fucked up perspective of Dean just because of some of the shit they’ve been through — those were still some nice things to say.

He clears his throat.

“So, uh. What about that chick from last time? Val? You gonna get in touch?” He tacks on a smirk for good measure, but Sam just gets all fidgety and starts inspecting his hands.

“Um, yeah. Yeah, actually — we’ve been texting, so we’ve already got some plans. It’s not a big deal,” he adds, and it’s all Dean can do not to laugh at him.

But then he realizes there’s no reason not to, and he happily chortles away until Sam turns the radio to Top 40 in retaliation.

They’re both a little surprised to make it home in one piece.

The 451 office holiday party is upon them, and Cas is looking forward to and dreading it in equal measure.

He’s looking forward to it mostly because Dean said he would be there and Cas has somehow found himself in the position of not wanting to wait another agonizing twenty-four hours for a next date, but he’s also dreading it, because he’s _not_ looking forward to another confrontation with Charlie like the one from Halloween, and he suspects a lot of Dean’s other friends and family will be there.

And now that they all know he and Dean are dating . . .

Cas has no idea how the night will go.

Sam and Dean are already there when they walk in around seven (Anna and Val accompany him, either for moral support or for more of the delicious catering from the last event; Cas isn’t sure and doesn’t care which) and the moment Dean spots him, he throws his brother a grin and strolls over to Cas, winding an arm around his waist and drawing him in for a kiss.

Despite the dates and the making out and the kisses good night, this is the first _hello_ kiss Cas has received.

He likes it, much more than he should.

“Hey, buddy, how’s it going?”

“Did your boyfriend just call you ‘buddy?’” Anna queries, openly critical.

“Did your sister just call me your boyfriend?” Dean retorts, but he looks amused.

Cas hates both of them, a little.

“Yes, Anna, because I am his buddy.” Sort of. The situation is complicated and getting moreso by the day, it feels like, but Cas is aware that that’s all in his head and probably even part of Dean’s plan. That’s fine, though. When he’s old and grey and all alone, he will console himself with memories of that brief period of time when he was eligible for kisses hello from the most wonderful person to ever walk the planet. “And yes, Dean, because my sister is a jerk sometimes.”

Dean frowns.

“You don’t want to be my boyfriend?”

Cas stares.

“What? No, I—" Dean’s frown deepens, and Cas hastily continues. “That’s not — you made it sound like _you_ had a problem with it.”

“I did not. I was just pointing out that you should ask a guy before you go around telling everyone else.”

“Well, I did no such thing,” Cas mumbles, face hot. He’s very aware of Sam and his sister glowering at the both of them, and if he didn’t know any better, that mild, pleasant look on Valencia’s face would have him thinking she was stoned.

“Okay, well, do you want to?” Dean’s eyes twinkle with some joke Cas doesn’t get.

“Want to . . . what?”

“Go around telling everyone I’m your boyfriend?”

Sam twitches, glare caustic, and Cas quickly averts his eyes.

“I . . .” If he says no, Dean will probably pout for the rest of the night, but if he says yes, two people present will probably roshambo for murder rights. “I need a drink.”

He hastily starts for the bar before he has to see anyone’s reaction.

Anyway, the bartender is just sliding his Old Fashioned toward him when a flash of orange pops up in his peripheral.

He almost cringes when he realizes who it is.

“Hello, Charlie. Happy Holidays.”

She purses her lips, eyes narrowed.

“You probably think you’re so clever, don’t you?”

Ah, yes. She probably saw the _hello_ kiss, then.

Cas still has no regrets.

“Not really.”

“Well,” she continues, like he hasn’t spoken. “I’ve got news for you, dude. People like you don’t get happy endings.”

Ah, but Cas is well aware of that.

“I see your pity was short-lived.”

“Yep, you pretty much killed it when you started messing with my best friend again.”

“Arguably, your best friend is the one—"

“Don’t _even._ Dean has a boatload of issues where you’re concerned, and you _know_ that — and you’re letting him do this, anyway. You’re just as selfish as you always were.”

Cas hesitates. He’s not really sure what to say to that. It’s not that he hadn’t considered it, but — but in the end, all he’s trying to do is give Dean what he wants. Cas is just trying to make things right, isn’t he?

Or maybe he _is_ just too selfish to give any of it up before he has to. Either way , he doesn’t want to talk to _anyone_ about it, least of all Charlie.

“Are you going to fire me?”

She glares, folding her arms.

“No. You’re not a terrible accountant, and you have a _dependent —_ I’m not heartless. But I _am_ eagerly anticipating appropriate karma, and I promise you it’s coming, so _be ready_.”

Cas almost laughs. He knows exactly what kind of karma is coming for him, and he doubts he’ll ever really be _ready_ for it.

“Duly noted. Thank you.”

She sniffs, and then reaches for his glass.

“Happy Holidays,” she declares, faux cheerful, and stalks away with his drink.

He sighs and orders another.

“Your boyfriend is a _dick._ ” Charlie takes an angry gulp of what looks like an Old Fashioned as she comes to a stop next to Dean.

“I thought you hated those.”

“I stole this one from someone undeserving, so I’m good,” she informs him, and takes another drink.

Dean watches Cas wait for his replacement, shoulders slumped tiredly.

“Hey, give him a break. He’s got a lot of shit going on.”

Charlie fixes him with the stink-eye.

“Oh, so Cas deserves a break now, hmmm? Maybe _you_ should give him a break, and _break up_ with him.”

Dean smirks.

“Can’t. He just said he wasn’t my boyfriend.” Dean’s pretty sure he only said that because Sam and the cranky redhead were glaring at him, so his feelings aren’t exactly hurt.

Charlie gapes.

“The _nerve_ —"

“Chuckles, I’m gettin’ whiplash. Do you want him to be my boyfriend or not?”

She huffs, squeezing the drink like it’s Cas’s neck, probably.

“I hate you sometimes.”

“I know.”

Her left eye twitches, and he half-expects her to throw the drink at him.

“You know, he asked me if I was going to _fire_ him,” she complains instead. Dean’s about to point out that, given how openly angry she is, he doesn’t really blame the guy for being worried — but then she continues. “Like _I’m_ the bad guy! He’s a single father , I’m not _evil._ ”

He pauses. There’s no way he forgot to tell Charlie—

But then he thinks about how upset she gets when he brings up Cas, and how both times they saw her at Roadhouse, she spent the evening scowling at him even though she _knows_ Dean’s just doing this for revenge, and yeah, okay — maybe he hasn’t exactly been big on sharing with her lately.

He coughs.

“’Course you’re not. You’ve got a big heart,” he adds, and then steels himself. “So I know you’ll cut him some slack once you know his situation.”

She narrows her eyes.

“What situation?”

“Uh, well. Turns out, that’s not his daughter?”

“What? Not his — what the hell?”

“Yeah, Claire’s his niece. But she said he was her dad since she’s kinda sensitive about being an orphan. She didn’t want me treating her any different.”

Charlie’s face falls.

“An orphan?”

“Yep. Her mom got sick a few years ago, and she was gone in a few months. And then a year‐and-a-half ago, her dad — Cas’s twin brother — got in an accident.”

Charlie’s eyes go big.

“His _twin_?”

Dean would feel bad about playing this card, but he’s not lying about anything, and even he feels a stifling sort of hollowness in his chest when he thinks about what that’s been like for Cas. Dean might feel like he’s serving justice as far as their personal history goes, because that’s a totally separate issue, but Cas doesn’t deserve Charlie or anyone else giving him grief, too.

“It’s why he’s here. He needed help taking care of her — and himself, too, probably.”

Charlie goes quiet for a long time, and Dean watches as Becky corners Cas, gestures expansive and filled with an enthusiasm few people probably ever feel in their lives. Cas slowly sips at his drink, eyes wide as she talks, and then hesitantly nods at the end, before — heading toward the door?

Huh. What’s that about?

Suddenly, Charlie _hits_ him.

“ _Ow!_ Dude, _what_?”

“ _Dude,_ ” she mimics, voice flat. “What the _hell_ are you doing? I mean, I’ve been asking that since day one, because I was worried about you, but — but — _no bueno,_ my friend! _No bueno!_ ”

“Look, this is — different. All I was trying to say was that as far as settling the score, I have it covered. You don’t need to make his life harder in any other ways.”

“And you don’t need to make it harder at _all_ ! Nothing good happens next!” she insists. “For either one of you! And I hate him and I hate feeling sorry for him, but this is just — this is a bad, bad situation, and as your _friend_ and a reasonable human person, I’m telling you, you should stop!”

Dean shakes his head. Where the hell did Cas go, anyway?

“Nope. We’ve come too far.” He refuses to keep explaining to people why this is so important, because they just don’t _get_ it. They don’t know what it’s like for Dean, having had this hanging over his head forever, fucking up him and all his business. This is happening, and nothing anyone says is going to stop it. “Anyway, great party, Charlie. I’ll talk to you later!”

And then he makes a beeline for the door Cas just went through.

When Becky catches him at the bar and begs him to go upstairs and print out her notes for the brief year-in-summary speech she has to deliver later in the evening, Cas is kind of relieved, because it means he can get out of the room for a little while and enjoy a nice reprieve from people making him feel terrible about the situation with Dean. With the exception of the greeting kiss, the evening’s turning out to be everything he was hoping to avoid.

Certainly, his moral support has found other diversions; Valencia has somehow come into possession of a reindeer headband, and is in the process of wrestling it onto Sam Winchester’s head when Cas passes them on his way out of the room, and he can see his sister gesturing emphatically at the various dessert offerings at the buffet while locked in heated debate with Bela.

He doesn’t even want to know.

The lights are already on when he gets to their floor, which he supposes makes sense if Becky was up here working beforehand, and he heads to her office. She said the notes should already be up on the screen, and all he has to do is hit _Print_ and retrieve the pages from the printer on the bookcase.

And if he takes a few minutes to just sit in his own office and breathe afterward, well — he’s sure he won’t be missed.

Cas lands on the weird, ergonometric white chair with a thump — it has significantly less cushion than anticipated — and toggles the mouse to wake the computer.

 _Word_ is open, the page filled with large chunks of text in Times New Roman, 12 pt. Cas spares a thought for the inefficiency of the design — how is she going to read that just by glancing at it, once she’s behind the podium? — but goes straight for the print button.

Until a few words catch his eye, and the print button becomes forgotten; he starts reading, certain he must have imagined it.

_Casper stares at Dan, breathless at the heat in his brilliant emerald gaze, which pins him to the wall as solidly as Dan’s big, firm hands are in that very moment._

_“D-dan,” he chokes out, his own_ _bright_ _sapphire orbs wide with surprise and guilty passion. “What are you doing? This is my office.”_

 _Dan pushes closer, tangling his fingers in Casper’s wild, sexy dark locks. This close, Casper swears he could count every one of Dan’s perfect, gorgeous freckles._ _He could do it with the tip of his tongue, he thinks, and then blushes at the naughty thought._

 _“I don’t care,” Dan says, lifting_ _a_ _hand to move over Casper’s chest, hot and slow like fresh lava. Full lips curl into a wicked grin._

 _“But someone could walk in_ at any moment, _” Casper protests, though_ _he knows_ _his needy pants betray his want._

 _“Let them,” Dan whispers, and Casper wails a loud, keening moan as_ _Dan’s_ _hand slips beneath his waistband to stroke his aching, engorged me-_

“Hey, Cas, whatcha doin’ up here?”

“Gah!” Cas fumbles the mouse, shoving backwards away from the computer. He grips the arms of the chair for balance, eyes wild as he meets Dean’s. “Fuck! Dan, what are you doing here?”

Dean blinks.

“Dan?”

“Dean! I mean Dean.”

“How many guys are you datin,’ Cas?” he jokes, chuckling. “Don’t tell me one of them got to the boyfriend title first.”

Cas laughs, but he’s pretty sure it comes out sounding like a bird that just flew into a window pane.

“No, no, I’m not — that’s very funny. You’re very funny, Dean.” He tries to laugh again, although his brain is still reeling in horror over what he hopes he just hallucinated reading.

“Right.” Dean’s smile has faded, expression turning confused. “What are you doin’ in Becky’s office, anyway?”

“Nothing!” Cas says quickly, and then mentally kicks himself. “I mean — not _nothing,_ obviously, she — Becky asked me to print her notes out. Which I am doing.” _If I can find them._ His hand itches to grab the mouse, to minimize the incriminating window, even though he didn’t mean to read it and he certainly didn’t _write_ it, so how can it possibly be incriminating? — but he doesn’t want to draw attention to the computer.

Dean’s lips quirk, although he looks more suspicious than amused.

“Okay. Well, that shouldn’t take too long. I’ll just wait for you and we can walk down together.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to — I could just meet you there?”

Dean nods slowly.

“Yeah. I guess you could.”

He starts to turn, and Cas sags in the chair, too relieved to question the lack of goodbye — but then Dean bolts around the desk, shoving the chair the last few inches against the wall and squeezing in between it and the desk to peer at the screen.

“Wait — Dean, no—"

But it’s too late. Cas flails, trying to scramble free, but there’s not quite enough space. Dean is a wall of solid rock that won’t be moved, and no matter how hard Cas awkwardly tries to push him out of the way, Dean keeps his feet planted and his hold firm, eyes scanning the screen.

Eventually, Cas gives up, leaning back against the chair and cringing as he waits for Dean’s response.

“Uhhh,” he finally says, and Cas braces himself. “So, wait — how’s this Dan guy jerking this Casper dude off at the same time as Casper’s hands are being held up above his head?”

Cas squints.

“What? Where was that?”

“You didn’t get that far? Sixth paragraph down, Dan’s got one hand in the pants and another up the shirt, but Casper’s still incapacitated. Jesus, Becky, if you’re gonna write weird fanfic, at least make it anatomically possible.” Dean leans to the side, revealing enough of his face to show that he’s frowning. “Ew, unless — is this Casper the Friendly Ghost fanfic? Is that how his hands are — but that doesn’t make any sense, I sure as hell would have remembered a movie where Casper had blue eyes and sex hair.”

Dean freezes the moment the words leave his mouth, and any hopes Cas had that Dean would remain so naive are dashed.

“Cas,” he says slowly, turning to stare at him. “Am I Dan?”

“I think so?” Cas offers weakly, and Dean inhales slowly.

“I see.” He pauses. “And you’re Casper?”

“It could be a coincidence?”

Dean pauses, brow furrowed—

And then he starts laughing.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me? Becky wrote _porn_ about us? And not even _good_ porn, but physically _impossible_ porn?”

Cas has no idea how to respond to that, so he just nods.

There’s a sudden noise of outrage from the hallway.

“Hey! You don’t have to be _mean,_ ” Becky calls, and then appears in the office, hand pressed to her chest, breathing heavily. “I am _so_ sorry, Castiel! I forgot I’d taken a break after going over my notes — I _never_ meant for you to see that — _please_ don’t tell Charlie, she’s really strict about this just because there were a _few_ times I got overexcited—”

“Becky,” Dean says, reproving. “Come on, you know better. This is practically sexual harassment.”

Her jaw drops.

“No! I didn’t — it’s not—"

“I mean, look at Cas. The guy’s traumatized.”

Her eyes go wide, flying to Cas, who continues to have _no idea_ what to say. Mostly, he’d like to be absorbed into the disturbingly smooth synthetic chair covering, far away from humiliating situations like this.

“Oh, my God, Castiel, I didn’t — I really — you weren’t supposed to see it!”

“Now, Becky, you know you shouldn’t have been writing it in the first place.”

Becky squares her shoulders.

“I’ve done nothing wrong!” she insists, though she still looks afraid. “It’s just original fiction about two men who are very in love with each other, and Castiel seeing it was an accident. It’s not harassment!”

“Dude, it’s obviously about us!” Dean argues, though Cas has a sneaking suspicion that he’s holding back more laughter.

“It is not! I changed the names!”

“So you admit it _is_ ,” he retorts smugly, and she looks caught.

“No! It’s — I’m allowed to be inspired by real life!” she practically cries, and Dean just shakes his head.

“Man, I’m really disappointed in you, Becky.”

Her face falls.

“Don’t tell Charlie, _please_ don’t tell Charlie!” she begs, and Dean sighs, hooking a hand underneath Cas’s arm to pull him up.

“Fine. Just this once. But you gotta promise to fix the hand situation — and leave poor Cas alone, alright?”

“Of _course!_ ” She sniffs. “I’m really sorry, Castiel. I didn’t mean to.”

Cas blinks, shuffling forward when Dean nudges him.

“It’s . . . alright.” Nothing about this situation is alright, Cas has decided, but there’s an open bar downstairs that can probably fix that.

“Thank you!” She reaches out to squeeze his arm. “I promise you’ll never see it again—" Cas notes that there’s no promise to discontinue writing such things, and debates whether it will sound like permission if he asks her to call him something other than _Casper —_ “And I’ll buy you lunch for a week when we come back to work!”

“Oh, no, that’s not—"

“You better, Rebecca,” Dean says sternly. “And think of something besides Casper, okay? I don’t know how Dan’s supposed to get it up when his partner’s name is _Casper._ ”

“Oh, do you think — I mean, I wasn’t sure — well, what about Chase?”

Dean — and _fuck him_ for doing it — actually considers this.

“Yeah, that’s not too bad.”

Becky brightens.

“Chase it is, then! Oh, oh, and — oh my God, what if I made Dan moonlight as a professional Dom because teachers don’t get paid enough — especially with all his beloved little brother’s medical bills! Then he could just use _handcuffs_ to—"

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Dean interjects hastily, finally looking alarmed, and pushes Cas out of the room. “See you later.”

“Bye guys! I’ll be _right_ down, if Charlie asks!” She pauses. “But don’t tell her why, okay? We had a deal!”

“Of course, Becky. Enjoy.”

Cas scowls at Dean’s back the whole way to the elevator.

“You _encouraged_ her.”

Dean snorts.

“C’mon, it was hilarious.”

“It was _embarrassing._ The woman I work next to every day thinks about me having sex with you!”

Dean pauses, finger hovering over the button, and glances back at him.

“Yeah? You tellin’ me she’s the only one?” He winks, and pushes.

Cas just stares, desperately trying to assure himself his erratic heart rate is a result of embarrassment or potentially fatal cardiac changes and nothing else.

“And then she _writes_ about it,” he continues, deciding to just pretend Dean didn’t say anything. “ _Badly!_ ”

“Can’t argue that. But hey,” he says, tone serious as he reaches for Cas’s hand, tugging him into the elevator. “You know I didn’t mean it, right?”

“What?” Cas asks. Dean selects floor one and the doors slide shut as he turns back to Cas, holding his gaze.

“What I told Becky.” There’s something almost — _tender,_ about the way Dean is looking at him, and Cas can feel his face growing warm again. He has no idea what Dean could be talking about, but if it’s making him look at Cas like this, it can only be a good thing.

Dean smiles, reaching up to brush a thumb across Cas’s cheek, and then he speaks.

“Dan would have no problems getting it up for Casper, no matter what he was called.”

Cas spends the rest of the trip down as far away from Dean as he can get, arms crossed while he glares at the doors and tries to ignore Dean laughing his ass off on the other side.

Still — the night improves. Dean keeps close, once they’ve made it back down, and with Anna distracted and Charlie preoccupied with party obligations, Cas is able to enjoy that closeness without interference. Dean pries his arms uncrossed as they exit the elevator, catching his hand and firmly threading their fingers together once he’s succeeded, and by the time he coaxes Cas to a vacant table, sits him down, and leaves him with a kiss on the cheek and a promise to be back with food, Cas has all but forgotten what he was vexed about in the first place.

Anyway, he doesn’t really see a reason why Dean should have to wait on him, but he doesn’t see a good reason to stop him, either, and he waits quietly, struggling not to touch his cheek in Dean’s absence.

Certainly, he thinks the nonsense in the elevator can be forgiven.

“Alright,” Dean announces, sliding into the adjacent seat and setting down a couple overloaded plates in the space between them, though he promptly scoots his chair close for good measure. “Got a little bit of everything, with extra of those kickass bacon-wrapped olive things and — since Becky traumatized you — I thought you could have some shitty cake, just this once.”

He grins as he cocks his head toward the slice of _Buche de Noel,_ giving Cas an expectant look.

Cas takes a quiet, fortifying breath, and gamely arches a brow.

“You realize I can eat as much cake as I want when you’re not around to argue with me about it.”

“Right, but if I argue with you when I am, you’ll still think about me when I’m not,” Dean counters, winking, though his face promptly freezes, wink turning to an awkward sort of twitch at the last moment.

He abruptly looks away, plucking an olive off the plate and sticking it in his mouth.

“So, uh, anyway,” he continues, chewing aggressively as he inspects the plate. “Christmas is next week. What, uh, what do you guys usually do?”

Cas hesitates, then reaches for an olive himself.

“The same thing we do for Thanksgiving. We spend a couple of days at my parents’ house.”

“Sounds like fun,” Dean offers, blatantly at odds with his expression, and Cas laughs.

“Not at all. But — it’s family. It’s hard to take that for granted, these days,” he adds, unthinking, and Dean sobers.

He’s quiet for a moment, chewing at a bite of artfully topped cracker.

“It — it’s weird, isn’t it?” he finally says, once he’s swallowed. “To, uh. To be missing somebody.”

Cas’s hand pauses at the edge of the plate, and after a moment, he sets it back in his lap, his next breath cumbersome in a way the one before it wasn’t.

“It is,” he agrees. “Especially — it, um, it was his favorite. Christmas, I mean.”

Dean smiles slightly, though his eyes are sad.

“Yeah?”

Cas nods.

“Yes. He was one of _those_ ,” he adds lightly, though the words feel weighty on his tongue. “Unironic ugly sweaters and Christmas carols, as soon as the weather turned even remotely chilly.”

“Hey, what about Halloween?”

Cas snorts, smiling despite himself.

“Not so much. Though he came around, once Claire got old enough to trick-or-treat.” Cas shakes his head. “No — he was in love with Christmas, ever since we were little.”

“Yeah? What about you?”

Cas just looks at him.

“I’m the one who told him Santa wasn’t real.”

Dean raises his brows.

“Wow. That’s cold, Cas.”

“It was,” Cas admits. “I — I regretted it, as soon as I did. I just . . . I was frustrated, sometimes. I had questions, and I was tired of being told not to ask them, and I was tired of watching Jimmy just go along with it. But I shouldn’t have.”

Dean shifts, and Cas feels his knee press against Cas’s own beneath the table.

“How’d he take it?”

Cas huffs a laugh.

“He cried. And then — he came back later and said I was wrong.” Cas sighs. “He had — a tremendous capacity for faith. Which, as obnoxious as it could be — particularly in the face of a logical argument — a part of me always envied that. No matter what he was told, no matter what happened, he could just . . . believe. With absolute conviction. I never . . . I never had that in me.”

Dean studies him for a moment.

“Maybe. That kind of thing can be a double-edged sword, anyway. But . . . I mean. It’s not all God and Santa Claus, man. There’s other things to believe in.”

“I don’t think it counts as faith if it’s evidence-based,” Cas says dryly, and Dean laughs, leaning back in his chair and casually resting an arm along the back of Cas’s.

“No, but — that’s not what I mean.” He shakes his head, then looks back at Cas. “It’s more . . . like — you’re here, right? You’re gonna go spend Christmas making nice with your parents even though your dad’s a dick and the jury’s still out on your mom, and you’re doing your damndest to take care of Claire even though she’s struggling and you are, too, and — and hell, you show up here for work and crunch numbers every day even though Becky writes porn about us and Charlie has it out for you.”

Cas squints.

“I was led to believe my employment would be unaffected by that.”

Dean crooks a smile, though his eyes stay serious.

“My point is — you’re trying. You wake up every day and you try, at all these things, for all these people, even though none of it’s perfect and I can tell you’re tired.”

“It’s not like I have a choice,” Cas protests, and Dean raises his brows.

“Bullshit. You’ve got choices. But you chose this, Cas. You chose to come back here and do your best to deal with all kinds of hard, painful shit, ‘cause these things are important to you. Because you want things to get better, and some part of you believes that if you try — they might. Or that at the very least, they won’t get worse.” Dean shrugs. “Sounds a lot like faith to me.”

Cas doesn’t know what to say to that, but fortunately, Dean doesn’t seem to expect him to.

“People don’t do things if they don’t think there’s a point. And you — you know, you’re doing a lot,” he continues. “A hell of a lot. So . . . I think you do have that in you, Cas. You just focus it on different things.”

They’re quiet, watching each other, Dean’s gaze soft. Some strange hollow inside of Cas’s chest suddenly feels on the verge of caving in, wracked by each slow thud of his heart.

He forces himself to turn away, reaching for a glass of water to busy himself, and the first sip only barely goes down.

“Well,” he eventually manages, conscious of Dean watching him. “I — I believe I’d like some shitty cake, now.”

For a long moment, Dean doesn’t respond.

And then his hand settles against Cas’s shoulder, warm as it squeezes, and he smiles.

“Sure. I’ll even get you seconds, if you want.” He pauses. “Casper kinda ended up having a rough night.”

Cas duly rolls his eyes, picking up the fork, but the first bite of cake has barely hit his tongue when he decides he doesn’t want seconds.

It’s too sweet, rich and heavy and at odds with the soft, airy frosting on top, and he can already tell it won’t sit right in his stomach.

Still, Cas is not nearly as ungrateful as his parents always said he was, and because of that—

He eats his cake and resists the temptation to ask Dean for what he really wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** SPOILERS **
> 
> Brief reference to kink in a fictional context/Borderline harassment: Becky asks Cas to go to her office and print her speech notes for the 451 holiday party; upon arriving and waking her computer, he accidentally sees erotic fanfiction she has written about ‘Dan’ and ‘Casper.’ Dean, who has followed him up out of curiosity, also sees, despite Cas’s efforts to conceal it, and points out that what’s happening is anatomically impossible, alluding to Dan giving Casper a handjob whilst simultaneously touching his chest and holding his hands above his head. He then comes to the same realization that Cas has about who it's about. When Becky arrives, Dean expresses disappointment in her, comparing it to sexual harassment, and complains to her about the hand situation, as well as about Casper's name. Becky accidentally confirms it is about them, apologizes to Cas and begs them not to tell Charlie. Dean ultimately agrees, though he insists she fix the hand/name issue. She suggests 'Chase', which he accepts, but when she goes on to talk about Dan moonlighting as a professional Dom and using handcuffs to secure Chase/Casper's hands, Dean cuts her off, bidding her farewell and leading Cas out.
> 
> Though this is played for comedy and Becky didn't mean for Cas to see that, Cas is disturbed by the situation; I think most people would feel uncomfortable to find a coworker created sexually explicit content about them, and Dean's comparison to sexual harassment was not without basis. Becky can write whatever she wants, but she should never have created a situation where Cas could potentially be forced to confront it and then have to work alongside her while experiencing that discomfort.
> 
> Light discussion of faith: Cas mentions to Dean that Christmas was Jimmy’s favorite holiday; in sharing a memory of having told Jimmy Santa Claus wasn’t real, only to have Jimmy come back later and insist on believing anyway, he notes that Jimmy was a person capable of great faith, and expresses envy that he never had the capacity for the same. Dean points out that there are different types of faith, and that Cas is trying at a lot of difficult things (his relationship with his family, his care of Claire, etc.), which he wouldn’t be doing if he didn’t believe it would make a difference. Cas tries to say he doesn’t have a choice, but Dean counters that he does, and that he’s choosing these things because they’re important and he believes putting forth the effort is worth something; in essence, Dean tells him that trying, especially as hard as Cas clearly is, is a form of faith. Again, this author is not an authority, and their personal understanding of faith is that how it is both defined and expressed is individual by nature, and thus varies to the same degree, but I apologize if anything about this conversation offends.


	23. Part II: nothing like the war we started

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: brief implied reference to Wincest in a fictional context, references to past Dean/Lisa, past emotional infidelity (details in the notes), character placing significance on virginity (details/clarification in the notes), potential significance placed on sex in a relationship (clarification in the notes), also there's a joke in here about having sex while listening to Dido (specifically White Flag), but no judgment on anyone who wants to do that, please let me know if I missed anything. 
> 
> Hope you’re all hanging in there and having a good new year ♡ Thank you so much for all your lovely feedback, and please enjoy!

> _You told me love was blind_
> 
> _For you, I closed my eyes_
> 
> _Yeah, you’re my first fall_
> 
> _Hardest break of them all . . .  
> _
> 
> _\- twentythousand, EXES_

Dean walks him to the valet station — rather unnecessarily, not that Cas complains — when it’s time for Cas to leave, tugging him beneath a shadowed overhang while they wait for Cas’s car.

“So.”

Cas does his best to disregard his mounting heart rate, lifting a brow in question, and Dean smiles at him.

“That wasn’t technically a date, but . . . do I get a good night kiss?”

“You can have whatever you want,” Cas mutters weakly, too worn out to pretend, just as a departing guest passes in their car, and Dean’s brow knits as he leans closer.

“Sorry, I didn’t get that.”

Cas takes a breath. For God’s sake, he’s better than this.

He closes the rest of the distance, feeling the chill of Dean’s startled inhale.

“I said — that depends. Are you my boyfriend?”

Dean’s expression goes slack, pretty eyes widely blinking back and all traces of slyness gone.

“Uh. Do you . . . is that . . . you never really said if you were interested in that.”

And Cas can’t tell, if this is artifice, or if Dean somehow doubts that he has Cas exactly where he intended to put him, ready to be led wherever Dean pleases — but really, it doesn’t matter. He can feel the heat radiating off of him in the cold air of the garage, and whether this is Dean, the vengeful mastermind, or Dean, the boy Cas left behind, the boy who clearly hasn’t forgotten being left-

Cas is interested in whatever he can get.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” he murmurs, and then he grasps the front of Dean’s very nice forest green holiday shirt, fingers crushing the complementary red tie against it, and kisses him.

He remembers this, he thinks, Dean’s hands instantly reaching for him, scrambling for hold. You always feel wanted, with Dean. All you ever had to do was make it clear he was wanted, first, and then-

Dean’s arm wraps around him, mouth unabashedly hungry as it moves against Cas’s, a hand winding up through his hair. He’s solid and warm and it feels so _good_ , to be held by him, Dean so convincingly open, responsive and giving in a way Cas has neither wanted or gotten from anyone else in the years since he last had this, and Cas wishes he could call Hester and ask her to keep Claire overnight so he could just go home with Dean and accept whatever was on offer.

He lets go of Dean’s tie, hands falling to clutch his sides instead as he instinctive trying to get closer, and the hand in his hair tightens, a soft sound lost amid the desperate slide of lips and tongues between them.

Someone clears their throat, and Dean breaks away with a gasp, though Cas holds fast, tucking his face against Dean’s shoulder, not ready to walk off alone into the cold night air — not ready to let go, period.

“Uh. Sorry,” Dean says, pleasantly hoarse. “I — just — give us a sec.”

“Of course, sir,” comes a conspicuously polite response, and there’s a quiet chuckle against Cas’s hair.

“Cas?”

“If I pass him a twenty, do you think he’ll let us keep making out?”

Dean laughs, startled, and Cas can feel it in his chest, a happy rumble that travels through him in the best of ways.

“Um. Probably. But you said you had to pick up Claire.”

Cas hesitates.

“She’s at my mother’s, this time. I can be late.”

“Yeah? Where was she last time?”

“Linda’s,” Cas explains, though he shifts, turning his head to draw his lips along Dean’s throat. “Kevin has a—"

“Very strict routine,” Dean finishes with a sigh, the kind that might as well be siren song for all that it makes Cas want to blindly wreck himself for the pleasure of what it suggests. “How late were you?”

“Ten minutes,” Cas mumbles, nosing behind Dean’s ear. He has on some kind of unexpectedly appealing cologne, and Cas discreetly breathes it in, an odd but not unpleasant combination of comforted and turned on. “She was very nice about it, though.”

“Yeah, Linda — Linda’s cool,” Dean agrees, angling his head slightly, and Cas dips down, Dean’s skin smooth and warm beneath his lips.

“Certainly cooler than my mother.”

“Hey, it sounds like you at least don’t have a curfew anymore.”

“Not exactly, but she worries more if I’m late, now,” Cas admits reluctantly, and Dean stills.

Cas shuts his eyes.

He’s so _bad_ at this.

Reluctantly, he pulls away. Dean has one of those soft, terrifyingly canny looks on his face again, and Cas drops his gaze, reaching to try and straighten Dean’s tie.

“Uh, no,” Dean says quickly, catching his hand. “I think it’s better if I do it.”

Cas huffs.

“I’m perfectly capable _—"_

“Sure, sure,” Dean interrupts kindly. “Just — don’t wanna delay you.”

“Dean.”

“No, really. You better hurry, or I’m gonna have to start digging through my wallet for a twenty of my own.”

Cas quiets, and Dean winks.

“Anyway — we’re still on for tomorrow, right?”

Cas nods slowly.

“We are. Claire has her sleepover.”

Dean nods back.

“Awesome. Should be good for her.”

Cas hopes so.

He hopes it’ll be good for him, too, though for entirely different reasons.

“It should. She’s trying not to make a big deal out of it, but I think she’s excited.”

Dean grins.

“Yeah?”

Cas nods again.

“I’m excited, too.”

The grin slips.

“Oh.”

Cas looks at him, hoping that look conveys everything he intends it to, and Dean swallows, blinking back.

“Okay. Uh. Well. I — I look forward to seeing you.”

“Likewise.”

Dean stares for another moment, then licks his lips.

“Then . . . uh. Good night, I guess.”

Cas hesitates, and then he ducks back in, lightly pressing his mouth to Dean’s.

“Good night, Dean.”

He hastens back to the attendant’s station before he can say anything he shouldn’t, fishing his wallet out of his pocket as he goes.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean calls after him, and Cas pauses, glancing back in question.

Dean looks at him for a second, and then he shrugs.

“You, uh. Drive safe, okay?”

Cas takes a breath.

“You, too,” he returns, and then he hands the attendant a five and makes himself get in his car.

The whole time, Dean waits, just like always, watching as he drives away.

Dean drifts back upstairs, once Cas’s car has disappeared down the ramp toward the exit (and Dean’s pointedly ignored the smirk-y look the punk behind the glass at the valet station gives him), and he hovers by the entrance to the hotel’s ballroom, not quite sure what to do with himself. Honestly, he’s still back in the garage, Cas pressed up against him, warm and sweet and everything Dean had kind of got used to thinking he’d imagined.

Because Dean had been all kinds of stupid, when it came to Cas, but this, at least, he always chalked up to youth and inexperience. He was sixteen, Cas was hot, and it was all — it was just _new._ Of course all the making out and what ever touching Cas let him get away with felt like _everything,_ felt like something Dean wanted to wrap himself up in and never come out of, felt like enough to sustain him even in the absence of vital necessities like actual food and water. Firsts are always like that, and if the seconds and thirds and fourths and fractional hookups along the way felt like they kind of paled in comparison — well, Dean gets that it’s like that for a lot of people. It’s about the novelty, not the person, and at the end of the day — the magic is all in your head.

But — kissing Cas is actually a _lot_ like he remembers. And that — that’s awesome, incredible, gives him the kind of rush he didn’t think he could get, as an adult, but-

It’s also kind of . . . unsettling. It reminds him of the days he wasn’t an adult, the days having to let go felt like a special kind of torture and nothing felt as right as it did when Cas was close enough for Dean to register his body heat; the days when Dean just _wanted_ Cas, wanted him eating dinner next to him, cuddled up watching movies, a smile in his eyes when Dean found him waiting with Sam at the end of the school day.

It reminds him of the days he was too drunk on happiness to question _reality_.

He’s not sixteen, though, no matter what Cas makes him feel like, and the reality is — whatever magic is happening, inside his head or out? It’s not real, and more importantly, it can’t last.

And while he can and _should_ enjoy this, as much as possible — he has to remember that.

Because imagining he and Cas were forever when he was sixteen was a joke, and imagining they could ever be anything more than the stupid game they started out as _now_ is just-

“Was the elevator broken?”

Dean jumps, swearing.

“Son of a bitch, Charlie, where did you come from?”

Charlie shrugs, nudging him aside so she can lean against the wall next to him.

“Ladies room.”

“Uh-huh,” he mutters, folding his arms. “And no. Cas and I just — had to talk over plans for tomorrow.”

She gives him a sidelong look.

“Tomorrow.”

Dean bares his teeth.

“Yup. Claire’s got a sleepover,” he adds, leering, but Charlie doesn’t take the bait.

No, she’s silent for so long he wonders if she’s actually resigned herself to just letting this one go, but then-

“He likes you,” she announces, watching him carefully, and Dean sucks in a breath, heart stumbling awkwardly between his ribs.

After a beat, he discreetly exhales, and offers her a smirk.

“I kinda got that, Charlie. You should have seen him say goodbye in the parking garage.”

Her eyes narrow.

“Not what I meant.”

“What’s not what you meant?”

“I’m not talking about gross shit you did in front of the poor valet kid, I’m talking about—" She cuts off, grimacing.

He raises his brows.

“What?”

After a weighty pause, her lips purse, and she turns back to the ballroom.

“You know, Becky catches him napping in his office, sometimes. Even I saw him passed out on a lunchtable once.”

Dean sobers.

“Yeah? I guess — he said he had trouble sleeping, before.” Although — Dean had thought that was all just part of the Claire lie.

Charlie nods, forehead creasing.

“That’s what he told me. I don’t know why.” She pauses. “Actually — oh, _right,_ it’s probably because of his _dead twin_ and _orphaned niece._ ”

Dean frowns.

“What are you trying to say?”

She turns back to him, incredulous.

“What do you _think_ I’m trying to say? Like — what are you even getting out of this, Dean?”

He just lifts a meaningful brow, ignoring the sudden unease, but Charlie’s not impressed.

“I mean it. What the hell do you get out of spending literal _months_ of your time with this super sad schmuck, stringing him along until he’s to the point where he spends two hours sitting at a table looking at you like you’re his only freaking lifeline — and then cutting him loose? Seriously, _what_?”

Dean hesitates.

“He didn’t look at me like that.”

“Yes, he _did,_ you goose. I’d rather have seen him sneak under the table to blow you. I could have at least had him thrown out for that!” She huffs . “ This isn’t a joke , Dean. Either he’s an ass and you’ve wasted too much time on him already, or _you’re_ an ass and you’re kicking someone when they’re already so completely down, they’re at the bottom of a _sinkhole._ Or both! It’s just — it’s all ugly, no matter how you slice it.”

Dean grits his teeth, shaking his head.

“Look, we’re not talking about this.”

“Really? Because I don’t think you’re _thinking_ about this, and you need to.”

“Oh, trust me,” he snaps. “This is _all_ I fucking think about. You don’t get it, Charlie—"

“No, I don’t,” she interrupts, eyes hard. “But, more importantly? I don’t think you do, either.”

He stares.

And then, because he knows exactly what he’s doing here and he certainly doesn’t deserve _Charlie_ nagging him to death over it-

He pushes off from the wall and stalks away to tell Sam it’s time to go.

“And you’re sure you have everything you need?” Cas asks, for the umpteenth time, before Claire gets out of the car.

“ _Yes,_ I’m sure.”

“And you know you can call me any time, if you decide you want to leave — right?”

“I _know._ ” Claire hoists her bag out of the back seat.

“I’m serious. If you feel even a little uncomfortable, at any time, do _not_ hesitate—"

_“Yes,_ I’ll call you if anything seems off. Patience and I are just gonna watch movies or play video games or whatever, I don’t know. I’ll be _fine._ ”

“If you’re sure.”

Claire looks equal parts amused and annoyed.

“I’m _sure._ ”

“Should I walk you to the—"

“’Bye, Cas!” she says, and shuts the door.

He waits, watching her walk up. The door is flung open before she’s even halfway there, Adam’s grinning face appearing and, under his arm, Kevin smiling as well, though he looks vaguely mussed. Behind them, and nearly a head taller, Patience waves.

Claire’s pace picks up, and Cas tries not to feel _too_ anxious. Cas has met Patience’s father on a couple of occasions, and he _seemed_ nice and normal; Adam’s been over here countless times, albeit not overnight, and Kate Milligan vouched for that niceness and normalcy when Dean made inquiries for him. James Turner and Linda Tran work at the same company and apparently golf together on occasion, so it’s not like he’s some unknown hermit. And Patience seems like a great kid, which usually says good things about a home.

_Still._

Supposing there’s not much he can do but be alert to his phone, he puts the car in drive and lets his mind wander to his _other_ problem.

If Claire is going to be out of the house all night — barring any incident — that means there’s really nowhere for Cas to be after his date with Dean.

Which _means_ . . .

Cas grips the steering wheel and hopes Claire stays up too late and has the most (safe) fun sleepover in the history of sleepovers, because while he may have let Dean down last time, tonight is going to be a different story, if he has anything to say about it.

In fact, Cas fully intends to be having a magnificent sleepover of his own.

Dean is just finishing up the spaghetti when Cas gets there, and the sauce is nearly lost when one kiss hello turns to about a dozen. Dean remembers at the last second, leaving Cas blinking owlishly in the entry way, coat still on and door still ajar behind him. When he finally turns to shut it, a woman fetching her post across the way is raising her eyebrows at him.

He lifts his hand in a weak, apologetic wave, and quickly closes the door.

“This tastes different than I remember,” Cas remarks. Dean was always a good cook, and his spaghetti was no exception — but the dish Cas is eating tonight is vastly superior by comparison.

“It should. I’ve had over ten years to practice for this.”

“I never said it tasted _better._ ”

Dean laughs, and then sobers when Cas just tilts his head, concern creeping in.

“You . . . really?” He takes a bite, chewing slowly. “Come on, it’s way better — isn’t it?”

And Cas _means_ to tease him a little longer, but he’s smiling before he can help himself.

“Yes. It’s wonderful, Dean.”

Dean relaxes, but lightly kicks him under the table.

“You’re still an ass. But, uh, thank you. I make the sauce myself.” He grins. “Used to be generic store-bought crap and some experimental seasoning. Nothing special about that.”

“I still loved it,” Cas insists solemnly.

There’s a weird silence.

“Uh. Well. Thanks? You — you love it now, too, right?”

Dean smiles, but there’s something awkward about it; Cas feels equally uncomfortable, but for the life of him, cannot figure out why.

“Obviously.” Another odd silence follows, and Cas takes a breath. “You should hope, for your sake, that you didn’t add too much garlic, because I will probably have seconds.”

Dean perks up in his chair.

“Why should I hope that?”

Cas’s neck warms. He hadn’t meant to be this blunt, but since it’s out there . . .

He clears his throat.

“Dean — I’m sorry about the other night.”

“Becky’s fic? Don’t sweat it, man. You should see what she wrote about me and Sammy, except you shouldn’t, because it’ll scar you. This was a million times better, trust me.”

Cas decides to just hope he’s misinterpreting the implication there, and forges ahead.

“No, I mean the _other_ night.” He coughs, focusing on his plate as he prepares another bite. “When I had to pick up Claire.”

There’s a lengthy pause from across the table.

“Oh, yeah?” Dean finally says, teasing. “You gonna make it up to me?”

_A_ _nd then_ _maybe_ _I can finally wake up from this goddamn recurring nightmare!_

Cas doesn’t think he can ever make this up to Dean.

He makes himself look up, anyway.

“Yes.”

Dean’s smile slips, mouth parting in a silent ‘o.’

“Eat your dinner, Dean,” Cas adds, much more confidently than he feels, and not a lot is said after that.

Cas insists on helping him wash up, after, and they work together in silence. A few times, Cas thinks he catches Dean’s hands shaking.

“So,” Dean starts when they’re done, leaning back against the counter. “We could watch our next Harry Potter.”

Cas nods.

“Or?”

“Or . . . I could show you my room.”

Quietly, Cas takes a breath.

“That would be nice. I haven’t seen it since you redecorated.”

Dean cracks a smile.

“Yeah, well, don’t get too excited. It’s the one room I did myself.”

“I’m sure it’s great.” If it has a bed — hell, if it has even remotely clean _carpet —_ and Dean in it, it’ll be fucking perfect.

Dean just shakes his head and pushes off the counter.

“C’mon.”

The walk to the bedroom feels like miles.

“Took me five years to move in here,” Dean notes once they’re there, nudging the door open and gesturing Cas through. “I couldn’t ‘till I totally redid it. It always felt like Dad’s room.”

“That makes sense,” Cas murmurs, and allows himself a subtle look around.

A few months ago, he might have been a little surprised, but by now, he’s not. He’s seen most of the house, spent time in it, and he knows that Dean looks most at home in the kitchen, facing the window, with one of his mother’s paintings close by; in light of that, the soft white walls and varying shades of blue in the room just make sense.

There’s a big, ornate wooden bookcase catty-corner to the bed, sporting evidence of all the things Dean loves, and — of course — an enormous, black-and-white shot of the Impala above the headboard. Opposite the bed is a dresser, on top of which sits a television, and there’s a dark wooden L-desk tucked into one corner, covered in books and papers and various computer accessories.

It’s soothing and open and cozy all at once; the comforter looks like the softest, plushest construction Cas has ever encountered, almost certainly a result of patient searching, and he promises himself he will take the time to carefully fold it at the foot of the bed before anything unsavory happens.

Sheets are easier to wash, at least.

“You were expecting a man cave, weren’t you?”

Cas smiles, eyeing the empty beer bottles sticking out of a bin by the desk before glancing back to the unnecessarily large TV.

Actually, minus the fan paraphernalia, it reminds him of his older sister’s room.

“What makes you think this isn’t one?”

Dean laughs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Right? I mean, maybe it’s not all dank and dark and — you know, whatever, but . . . it’s mine. I feel good here.”

Cas feels good here, too, though lately, he thinks he’d feel good anywhere Dean was.

“You should. It’s nice.”

“My room was blue,” Dean blurts out, and then makes a face. “I mean, when I was a kid, before my mom — it was blue.”

Ah.

“Blue is a good color. It calms people.”

“Right?” Dean almost looks relieved. “I, uh. I thought so. ‘S’a good place to just — relax.”

Cas tilts his head.

“You don’t have to explain, Dean,” he says gently, and Dean shrugs.

“Yeah, but — it’s not like, rustic lumberjack, or vintage bad boy, you know?”

“I didn’t think it would be, as you are neither a rustic lumberjack or a vintage bad boy. You’re . . .” Cas searches for the right words, but comes up blank. Dean’s a lot of things, some of which might superficially contradict each other, but Cas can’t imagine him being anything else. “Well, _you._ If you like it — if you feel good here — then it must be right.”

Dean looks at him for a long moment, and Cas looks back. It’s no hardship; one of the perks to dating Dean — fake-dating Dean, or whatever it is they’re doing — is that he feels like he can look his fill. If he wants to stare, or make weird, prolonged eye contact, he’s allowed. He’s earned it.

“Must be,” Dean says at last, then turns away, clearing his throat. “So, uh. Have a seat?”

He waves his hand vaguely to the bed, and Cas’s heart launches into a quick, happy rhythm as he approaches it, planting himself on the edge and trying not to look too impatient — or worse, hopelessly eager — for what happens next.

“Are you going to sit, Dean?” he asks seriously, but Dean shakes his head, smile small and sly.

“In a minute.” Cas watches curiously as he walks over to a stereo on the bookcase. “It’s just, uh, Garth loaned me this CD I thought you might like.”

Cas gets a weird sense of deja vu, but brushes it aside. Dean could play the loop of menacing carnival music he once walked in on Claire and Valencia practicing slow-motion, gloomy dances to, and it probably wouldn’t ruin the mood enough for Cas to back out.

“Alright.”

Dean hits a few buttons, and then he climbs onto the bed from the other side, crawling over to Cas and reaching for him.

That happy rhythm stutters, in the best of ways.

“So. Where were we?” Dean murmurs, smiling, and in answer, Cas surges forward to kiss him.

There’s a victorious chant of _finally, finally, finally_ echoing on repeat inside his head as Dean grips his waist, drawing him closer, but it’s gradually interrupted as the song begins, the music sounding more and more familiar until eventually, it pierces through the fevered haze.

_I know_

_You think that_

_I shouldn’t_

_Still love you_

_Or tell you that . . ._

Cas tears himself away, too outraged to mourn the contact.

“ _No,_ ” he declares, glaring hard. “We’re not listening to _Dido_ while you fuck me.”

Dean dissolves into gleeful giggles, much to Cas’s chagrin — how can he play practical jokes at a time like this? _Clearly,_ he’s not as invested as Cas is, and though it shouldn’t be a surprise, it stings — until he abruptly cuts off, grin fading fast.

“What?”

Cas blinks.

“What?” he echoes.

“You — while I—" Dean shuts his mouth, then tries again. “That’s — not what I had always, uh. Pictured.”

Cas continues to look at him, uncomprehending.

“What?” he says again, and Dean clears his throat.

“I mean, I always thought you’d wanna . . .”

Cas has no idea what Dean thought he’d want, but that’s exactly what _Cas_ has been picturing. More importantly, though, he doesn’t actually care what happens next, not how or to whom, so long as it involves Dean taking off his clothes and some amount of naked touching between them afterward. And certainly, Cas’ll be _disappointed_ if an orgasm on his part isn’t also involved, but really — he’s not an idiot; he prepared himself to be teased in this, as well, and at the very least, it’ll be something wonderful to keep in mind for later.

Anyway, he’s about to say as much, when at last, Dean's actual words sink in.

“What you’d always . . .” He trails off, mouth dry. “You pictured it?”

Dean quickly looks away.

“Uh. Yeah. I mean — we’ve, uh. We’ve been dating for a while, so . . .”

Cas stares.

That _could_ be what Dean meant — but it’s not what it sounded like.

“And before?” he presses, though it shouldn’t matter. “When we — before?”

Dean rolls his eyes, smile cheeky, but there’s a redness in his cheeks that wasn’t there a moment ago when he finally looks at Cas.

“Dude. Come on. I was a sixteen-year-old virgin and I was seeing the hottest kid in school. I’m surprised I ever got anything else done.”

Cas’s stomach flips, and he distantly thinks he ought not to have objected to _Dido,_ after all.

“Oh.” He can feel himself blushing. “I . . . I, um. Me, too.”

The smile slides right off Dean’s face.

“Not — not _then,_ exactly,” Cas hastens to add, the imminent objection clear, and it’s even mostly true. The months he’d dated Dean had been some of the least satisfying personal time of his life; he’d desperately tried to assure himself that it was normal to flash back to the person you were making out with all the goddamn time, but then absolutely forbade himself from actively thinking of Dean while he did it. Needless to say, it rarely went well. “Later. In college. I . . . I wondered — what if.”

Dean’s brow creases.

“Wait — in _college_? Why the hell were you thinking about me in college?”

“Because I missed you,” Cas admits. “And I hadn’t let myself, before.”

“Bullshit. You didn’t want to sleep with me back then.”

“But I did.” Cas has been thinking about that, about what Dean said, last time. _Makes this a lot more fun for you than it used to be._ Cas knew — _knows —_ what he did to Dean left scars; of course it did. But he hadn’t realized quite how skewed — how _wrong —_ Dean’s perspective of the situation was, and while Cas has been trying not to talk about it, out of respect for Dean’s peace — if such a misconception is still hurting Dean . . . perhaps it’s time to clear it up. “ Because I _did_ like kissing you, Dean . I liked it t oo _much._ You — you were starting to drive me crazy.”

Dean stares, expression rife with bitterness and disbelief.

“Fine. Let’s — pretend for a second that’s true. Why the hell _didn’t_ you sleep with me, then ? I — fuck, I _threw_ myself at you. Daily! If you really wanted to—" He cuts off, something vaguely miserable in his eyes. “Why wasn’t it happening?”

“I — I couldn’t undo it. I thought — I know, now, that I was wrong, but at the time, I thought you’d just — move on from it all. Forget about it. But I didn’t think you could ever forget _that._ ”

“Well, thanks for being so goddamn considerate, buddy, but I _didn’t!_ I didn’t forget a damn thing!”

His mouth twists, deeply unhappy, and Cas closes his eyes.

“I know. I know, Dean, and I—"

“No, Cas, you really don’t!” Dean snaps. “Because you know what?”

Cas quiets, bracing himself, throat tight with shame, though nothing in the world could have prepared him for the words Dean throws at him next.

“I wish we _had_.”

Dean’s way, way overplaying his hand here, but he can’t seem to stop. Fuck, he doesn’t even know _how_ they got started. One minute Dean was trying to calm his nerves by playing a frankly hilarious joke on Cas before they got down to business, and the next, they’re rehashing the most painful and humiliating part about everything Cas did to him eleven years ago.

And he knows it’s time to shut up, to take the long shot at getting things back on track, but it’s like some fucked up part of him _wants_ to tell Cas this. And it shouldn’t, because this is just _embarrassing,_ just makes it clear how pathetic Dean really was, but — but he wants Cas to _know._

What he wants after that, he’s not sure.

Cas stares at him, shock plain, and then he sucks in a breath.

“How can you say that?” he whispers, and Dean almost laughs.

“God, you just — you don’t _get_ it, do you? You have no fucking _clue._ ” He scrubs a palm down his face, suddenly tired, despite his racing heart . “Like — when I said I was in love with you, I wasn’t kidding. Actually, that was probably an understatement. I was — I was crazy, taken-leave-of-my-faculties _gone_ for you.”

He watches Cas’s throat bob on a swallow.

“But — I would think if we — that would have made it _worse._ ”

“You think?” Dean curls his fingers around the royal blue comforter underneath them, just to try and ground himself. He’d used the blankets from his old room for over a year before he’d found the perfect one, and it’s probably the most comfortable bedding item he’s ever encountered. “Cas, I don’t think _anything_ could have made it worse.”

Actually, Dean can think of a few ways it could have been a lot worse, especially with how it might have been revealed to others, if Cas had managed to make it through — but he refuses to sit here and argue semantics when he has a _point_ he’s getting to, okay?

“Fine — then I don’t see how it could have made it better.” Cas sounds sad and petulant, like he has any emotional stake in this whatsoever. And sure, maybe he feels guilty, maybe he doesn’t want to hear that what he did was even worse than he thought, but fucking _tough._

Dean needs him to _know._

“Summer after junior year,” he says. “Lisa’s bedroom. Her parents were away and she was about to go to college and she wanted to—" He breaks off, not sure how to say it. What is it about going over shit that happened to you when you were a kid that makes you feel like you still are one? “Well, you know.”

Cas lowers his eyes, hunching over a little.

“Yes.”

“Like — you’re getting this, right? I was seventeen and the girl of my _dreams_ wanted to deflower me in her room. Can you think of a less perfect way to lose your virginity?”

Cas’s mouth is tight.

“Congratulations? Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I _didn’t._ Because when it came down to it, I _couldn’t._ And sure, Lisa was really nice about it — I mean, shit, she told me how she chickened out her first time, too, and h ow sweet her boyfriend was about it and how much that meant to her, so whenever I was ready or if I wasn’t ready, she was good with it — but the point stands. There could not have _been_ better circumstances, except I couldn’t go through with it, and I was relieved as hell when she was okay with that.”

Cas is frowning, but his shoulders have relaxed a little, which _fuck him,_ he should be as tense as Dean is right now.

“That’s — but that’s good, isn’t it?”

“ _No,_ you ass _._ Do you know _why_ I couldn’t?”

Cas shrugs helplessly.

“No? I don’t — Dean, I don’t understand what—"

“Because of _you._ Because after _everything_ you did, there was some completely fucked up part of me that thought, _what if_ ? What if I go to college and you’re there and somehow we work it out and if I — if I do this with Lisa now, this is something I can’t give to _you._ ”

Cas stares at him, mouth open, and Dean is surprised to find himself shaking, more upset than he realized.

“And sure, obviously I got over it, but — it was a _fight_ , Cas, every step of the way. Didn’t happen till I got to _college_. I didn’t even put it all together in my mind until later, but it’s because that’s when I realized you were gone for good.” He shakes his head. “God only knows why Lisa even stuck around that long.”

Cas is silent.

“Because it was you,” he says eventually, and Dean almost shoves him right off the goddamn bed because he has no idea what to do with that and he’s so fucking tired of trying to provide some kind of context to Cas and what Cas says and does, of trying to somehow make _any_ of it make sense.

He doesn’t answer, just shuts his eyes and brings a hand to his face. This was it, this was the night, Cas was ready and Dean was ready and there was nothing stopping them, but their history is an open wound and it chooses the least convenient times to start gushing.

“We’re a fucking mess,” he mumbles.

There’s silence, and for a moment, Dean wonders if Cas couldn’t hear him.

But then-

“Should we stop seeing each other?” he asks quietly.

And just — _fuck him_ for feeling like that’s an option, even, because Dean doesn’t, isn’t ready to let go yet and has no idea when he will be.

“No. No, we — we’ll work it out. I want to. Do you?”

He’s afraid of the answer, and that fear doesn’t quite settle even after Cas nods.

They sit in heavy silence, the second hand on the clock ticking away like a bomb.

“I . . . I should get home.”

“You should stay,” Dean counters automatically, and looks down. “Not for — I mean, the mood is pretty much dead. But — you could sleep here. And I could make you breakfast.”

When there’s no response, Dean glances up to find Cas subjecting him to a searching look.

“Are you sure? You — it might be better for you, if I—"

“It won’t be. Please,” he adds, and the word feels weighty in his mouth, more admission of guilt than invitation. “Stay.”

Cas nods.

“Alright.”

Dean relaxes, finally, because he can work with that. He feels flayed open and raw and like he’s hurtling towards some unavoidable, fatal impact, but as long as Cas sticks around, he’s sure he can figure it out.

“You, uh. You wanna watch Harry Potter?”

That gets him a smile — a small, wispy thing, but a smile nonetheless.

“Ask me again after it starts.”

Dean huffs a laugh, and after a beat, reaches for Cas’s hand, lightly tugging as he slips off the bed.

Yeah, he decides, something in him settling.

They’ll figure it out.

Cas tries to insist on taking the sofa, but it’s very hard to form words, much less a convincing argument, when Dean Winchester is unbuttoning your shirt and pushing you towards his bed.

There’s a carefully measured distance between them as they fall asleep, not quite enough that Cas can’t feel warmth radiating from another presence in the bed, but not close enough to touch, either, and he’s relieved to find it holds throughout the night. He’s not sure which would be worse; if he’d woken to find himself pressed close against Dean (or, God forbid, snuggling) or if he’d found Dean shifted as far away from him as he could get.

(He knows. The latter might just kill him.)

Cas wakes first, roused by the light just coming through the window, and spends a few minutes simply staring at Dean, measuring the rise and fall of his chest and tracking the infinitesimal twitch of lashes as he dreams. Guilt (and an increasing pressure on his bladder) eventually drive him to the bathroom, Cas trying to be as quiet as possible as he relieves himself and washes his face. There’s a pack of new toothbrushes under the sink, and after a moment’s hesitation, Cas commandeers one. He’ll replace it, if Dean is bothered.

Still, he wonders if this one will be left out on the counter, like Cas might come back for it; he wonders if he _will._

Dean is still asleep when he’s finished, and though Cas knows the polite thing to do would be to wait in the living area until the host is ready to wake up, his feet carry him back to the bed.

It’s warm there, he reasons, and he’s in his undershirt and boxers. Hijacking a spare toothbrush is one thing, but it would be presumptuous to swipe a hoodie off the door or wrap up in the throw blanket on the sofa. After all, Dean might feel like he had to wash anything Cas used, and Cas doesn’t want to inconvenience him.

With this rationale, he climbs back into bed and loses himself to time, thoughts drifting as he idly watches Dean in slumber.

He’s not sure how long it’s been when Dean finally stirs, but the sun is all the way up and bathing Dean in white-gold light by the time it happens.

“Damn,” Dean mumbles, blinking sleepily and squinting at the window. “Forgot to shut the curtains.”

While the sheers might obscure the view, inside or out, they’re flimsy resistance against full-on sun.

“Sorry. I didn’t think of it.”

Dean waves a hand, yawning, and to Cas’s surprise, rolls over and plants a clumsy kiss somewhere in the vicinity of his mouth. He doesn’t draw away when he’s done, just collapses again right next to Cas, sleep-warmth radiating off his body as he sighs.

“How long have you been up?”

Cas fights against the sudden, tight feeling in his throat, and shrugs.

“I’m not sure. Not long.” Cas is fairly confident he’s been lying there, watching Dean sleep for the better part of an hour, but he knows better than to admit it.

Dean fixes him with a suspicious look, though he doesn’t lift his head.

“Not long,” he repeats, and Cas lowers his eyes demurely. Dean sniffs. “You smell like toothpaste.”

“I used one of the ones under the sink. I hope you don’t mind.”

Dean feigns offense.

“Dude, you don’t just look under a man’s sink. You could have found all kinds of weird shit under there.”

“I know, I was very disappointed.”

Dean laughs, shifting around so he’s facing Cas.

“Brushed your teeth, huh?” he says, still smiling. “And came back to bed.”

Cas nods slowly.

“And came back to bed.”

He’s not surprised when Dean kisses him, curling a hand around the nape of Cas’s neck, nor does he mind that _Dean_ hasn’t brushed his teeth yet. It’s not a deep kiss, kept to a series of light, lingering presses, but Cas wants to sink into it and never come out.

Dean’s hand slides away, and he settles back against the pillow.

“You could’ve started breakfast.”

“You said you’d make _me_ breakfast,” Cas reminds him, and Dean shakes his head.

“You’re a terrible guest.”

Cas doesn’t mind being a terrible guest; it doesn’t seem to impact the number of kisses he receives, or how many times Dean’s smiled at him this morning alone, and Cas is pretty sure Dean still intends to make good on his promise of breakfast.

In any case, it’s a much better morning than he deserves, given what they talked about last night. Cas intends to make the most of it.

Almost like he’s read his mind, Dean’s head lolls to the side, and he opens his arms a little, a silent invitation Cas would be a fool not to accept.

He slides closer, curling up in the space beside him and laying his head against Dean’s chest, and as soon as he’s settled, Dean’s arm curves around him. Cas lets his own rest across Dean’s stomach, fingers lightly clutching his waist on the other side, and after a moment, Dean starts petting his hair.

If Cas didn’t have to pick Claire up at eleven, he’d be more than happy to just die here.

Of course, all good things must come to an end, and not long after, Cas’s stomach growls, because apparently, emotional drain is the key to restoring his morning appetite.

Dean chuckles.

“Okay, huggy-bear. I promised you breakfast.”

_Huggy-bear_ ? This is an absurd nickname, especially for _Cas,_ but he’s not going to object. Besides, if Dean chooses to envision him as some kind of hug-driven ursus and dispense cuddles accordingly, Cas supposes he can tolerate it.

He clears his throat.

“I could stay here and you could just bring back cereal.”

Dean snorts.

“Nope. Cereal is for school days.” He shifts away, and Cas absolutely doesn’t cling, not even a little.

(He definitely watches Dean stretch, though.)

Once Dean’s on his feet, he heads for the bathroom, pulling a grey robe off the hook and tossing it on the bed.

“Here, put that on. I’m gonna wash up real quick and brush, okay?”

Cas reluctantly sits up and starts pulling on the robe.

“What about you?”

“I’ll borrow Sam’s.”

A thought suddenly occurs to Cas.

“Uh. Where _is_ Sam?”

Dean throws a grin over his shoulder as he heads into the bathroom.

“Date!” he calls. “Why, you worried breakfast was gonna be awkward?”

Actually, Cas is having visions of other ways last night could have gone horribly wrong, and while he’s not _happy_ with how it ultimately turned out, he might just prefer the emotional drain to being chased out of the house sans clothes by an irate Sam Winchester.

He’s pretty sure, had that happened, Dean would just find it _funny._

“It certainly would be,” Cas says instead, and knots the robe, ignoring the way it’s soft and warm and smells like Dean, because that would be a creepy thing to focus on.

Anyway, while Dean handles his morning ablutions, Cas explores the room a little, rather than waiting in the main area.

He’s examining the little figurines on the bookcase when he sees them.

_Lawrence High School Yearbook,_ each one says on the spine, followed by the year. They’re on the very bottom shelf, and considerably dustier than everything else. Part of Cas is surprised they’re not stuffed in a box somewhere, but his curiosity is grateful.

He reaches for the one from Dean’s senior year, and goes straight for the W’s.

Cas had mostly settled down from his wreck of a freshman year at college, but with sobriety came a certain awareness of his surroundings, and it did not escape his notice when he started seeing Lisa Braeden around campus.

_Oh, don’t bother trying to set her up, she has a boyfriend back in high school._

_Don’t you want a college guy, Lisa?_

Cas remembers the way Lisa had smiled, oblivious to him and any interest he could have in the conversation one library table over.

_You wouldn’t ask that if you saw my high-school boy._

Cas knew, even before the ensuing conversation confirmed it, that she was talking about Dean.

That was probably his first conscious indication that his feelings for Dean were a little more complicated than _guilt_ and _friendship_.

He’d wanted to be relieved, of course. That right there was proof that Dean was _fine,_ that he’d recovered from Cas and moved on and gotten everything he’d wanted. Cas had tried, very hard, to be happy for Dean, and he was.

But he also thought back to before they’d broken up, to all his half-baked plans to somehow keep Dean around, known he’d probably have just kept on dating Dean, if the truth hadn’t come out — and he’d pictured what things would have been like if he had.

It was nothing good.

Cas traces the edges of the little rectangle, taking in Dean’s face. It’s vastly different than what he remembered leaving behind, but not nearly as much so as the man now.

It’s still Dean, though, some intangible quality present in all three versions; the more time that passes, the more Cas has trouble understanding how he didn’t know, the moment Dean turned around in Pam’s bar.

He flips the pages, searching for the other pictures, because he knows they must be here; everything Dean was as a person, combined with looks people couldn’t _not_ notice, should have made him the most popular guy in school.

As expected, there are many, and Cas finds them all.

And then there’s Dean, slow-dancing with Lisa at prom, tiny plastic crown on his head slipping down where their foreheads touch together. They sport wide smiles, inches apart, and Cas is so, _so_ glad Dean got this, but there’s a familiar pang there, too, because this is also what he pictured when he tried to imagine staying with Dean.

Dean would have finished growing up, vibrant and beautiful and much too obvious for Cas to keep a secret any longer — and then he would have moved on to better things.

“Whatcha rea- _ack._ ” Dean’s at his side in a moment, wrestling the yearbook away. “Dude, _not cool._ This is worse than the sink snooping.”

He shoves it back on the shelf, upside down, and stands in front of it like Cas might actually try and get it back.

Cas lifts his hands.

“It was in plain sight,” he points out, and Dean holds up a finger.

“That’s a shit excuse, man. It’s a _yearbook._ Nobody wants other people looking at their yearbook, least of all their — their — uh—"

Dean stutters, trailing off, eyes wide.

Cas clears his throat.

“Boyfriend?” he ventures cautiously, and Dean flinches. “I thought — the other night, I thought . . .”

Dean swallows.

“I — yeah? Kind of?”

Cas hesitates.

“We don’t have to be,” he offers.

Really, labels aren’t important, here. Whatever he and Dean are — it’s temporary and finite and hinges on them deliberately pretending otherwise, and Cas would rather enjoy it than argue for applying false definitions to it.

“No, I — just — you didn’t actually say, one way or the other.”

Cas frowns.

“I told you not to ask stupid questions. And then I kissed you.”

Dean blinks.

“Yeah, but — I mean. You know, the — the kissing and the ‘yes’ aren’t always the same thing. Didn’t — didn’t they have a Ms. Mills come talk to you guys about—"

Cas rolls his eyes.

“Yes, they did. But alright.” Cas pauses, carefully weighing his words. “I’d like for you to be whatever you want, to me. Is that clear?”

Dean’s brow knits slightly, his eyes flicking between Cas’s.

“Uh. Actually, that . . . that sounds kind of vague.”

Cas tilts his head.

“Dealer’s choice,” he answers after a moment, and Dean’s lips part. “You’ll have to let me know. In the meantime — I believe I was promised breakfast?”

“Right.” Dean takes a breath, gaze dropping as his hand moves up, rubbing the back of his neck. “How, uh, how do you like your eggs?”

“Like I like most things,” Cas deadpans, taking pity on his discomfort. “Overeasy.”

Dean immediately snorts, expression lightening, and Cas starts toward the door with a smile.

“I’ll take whatever you decide to give me, though,” he adds as he passes, and after a moment, Dean follows.

“Yeah?” He clears his throat, joining Cas in the hall. “I’ll hold you to that.”

And really-

Cas expects him to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** SPOILERS **
> 
> Past emotional infidelity: In discussing the past, Dean admits to consciously keeping things back from Lisa due to lingering feelings for Cas and hope that they would somehow reunite and work things out (see the below note). Previously, you may have gathered that Dean felt particularly guilty towards Lisa, and this is why. While Dean was not fully aware of all the effects Cas had had, he was aware of these residual feelings and hopes, and it was not fair to Lisa for those feelings and hopes to take priority over his commitment to her.
> 
> Character placing significance on virginity: After another encounter is derailed by mention of the past, Dean confides in Cas that the first time he tried to have sex (at 17, in a relationship with Lisa), he was unable to go through with it. He admits that the possibility of meeting Cas again in college and things working out between them made him afraid that if he was intimate with Lisa, that would be ‘something [he] couldn’t give to [Cas].’ There’s a lot to unpack there, obviously, but while the significance or lack of significance of these things is a personal matter, there is certainly a broader culture around it, and this sentiment may be somewhat problematic (particularly when it comes to thinking of such things in terms of ‘giving’ and/or ‘taking.’ Getting to share something with someone can be a gift of sorts, but giving something up, losing it, or having it taken from you suggests a not altogether positive subtext/dynamic to an experience that, if someone decides to have it, should be positive). Whatever Dean’s feelings and motivations are, they are strictly Dean’s, and such things only possess the meaning we choose to give it. It’s absolutely not my intent to assert the importance either of virginity or of a special set of circumstances for how a person has their first sexual experience with another person; nor is it meant to suggest some greater meaning inherent to the process, for either party involved.
> 
> Potential significance placed on sex: During the conversation referenced above, after noting that he and Lisa did not have sex until Dean went to college, Dean says, “God only knows why Lisa even stuck around that long,” to which Cas responds, “Because it was you.” This type of exchange tends to reinforce the idea that a lack of sex is something to be ‘put up’ with, and therefore ties in to the worth of a partner and the worth of a relationship. To be clear, if Lisa found a relationship without sex unfulfilling, that would be a question of her wants and needs in a relationship, which exist completely separate from Dean. They will be the same whether Dean – or anyone else – is wonderful or horrible, and they will never be a reflection of her partner. Likewise, no matter how amazing Dean or anyone else is – and no matter how much their partner loves them – they do not have the power to change someone’s needs, and if the need they don’t meet is strong enough in their partner, the relationship is not going to work. That doesn’t automatically mean anyone is wrong/not enough/asking too much, it just means they’re a bad fit.
> 
> On that note, Cas is projecting his own feelings and his own ideas about fulfillment; not to drop major spoilers, but he’s quite in love with Dean, and Dean is able to meet many of his most important needs - needs which have often gone neglected. Cas’s ‘because it was you’ is a reflection of that perspective; again, regardless of how incredible Dean might be, there are still going to be plenty of equally awesome people who would not be happy in a relationship with him.


	24. Part II: can’t run away from where we’re going

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: reference to the incident with Cas's parents in Part I (where they insinuated he would corrupt Dean), religious undertones in Hester’s side of a conversation with Cas, implied offscreen blowjob (Sam/Val, comedic purpose), please let me know if I missed anything.
> 
> Apologies for the very long wait! Just real life things; unfortunately, I also have midterms next week, so sorry in advance if it’s another gap >> Thank you all very much for your patience, and for your always wonderful feedback!! ♡ I hope you’re all doing well and staying safe, and please enjoy!

> _This thing you’re building now-_
> 
> _All I see is it coming down_
> 
> _You are so good_
> 
> _I know that this is gonna hurt_
> 
> _I don’t think we should_
> 
> _You know it’s never gonna work_
> 
> _There’s things that you can’t see_
> 
> _You’re way too close to me_
> 
> _This one’s gonna hurt . . ._
> 
> _\- Hurt, Gabrielle Aplin_

This is _ridiculous._

If Cas comes back from Dean’s in that weird kind-of-happy-but-mostly-melancholy state _one more time,_ she swears she’s breaking up with Mr. W _for_ him.

“How was the sleepover?” he asks her, once they’ve said goodbye to Patience and Mr. Turner and left.

“Pretty good.” It was awesome, actually, even though Adam still thinks wet willies are funny and Kevin made them all review math after the movie so they won’t be lost when they get back from break. Not to mention Patience wakes up at _six am,_ even on holidays. And then she drinks _tea!_ She’s fourteen and she wakes up and puts on real pants and makes herself a cup of _tea._ Someone needs to save her. “How was yours?”

Cas shrugs, but his eyes get all far away and kind of gloomy.

“It was nice.”

“What’d you do?”

Cas arches a brow at her.

“Do you really want to know?”

The words are right, and Claire is halfway through a recoil before she realizes that pretty much nothing else is. Cas seems tired and worn out, and not in a good kind of way — not to mention he’s about fifty times less cheerful than he was last night when he was getting ready.

Claire doesn’t understand what’s going wrong.

Her suspicions are further confirmed when they get to Anna’s house just as Sam Winchester is leaving it.

“Oh — uh, hey. Good morning,” he says, smile awkward, but eyes bright. There’s a weird energy about him, and Claire’s not really sure what it is until they get to the kitchen and find Valencia in her nightshirt, sitting on the counter with a cup of coffee and humming while she works on a crossword.

She’s got it, too, and it’s then that Claire knows for sure that Cas did _not_ have a good sleepover.

“Hey guys,” she greets them, without looking up. “Everybody have fun last night?”

“ _No,_ ” comes a muffled voice, and Claire peers past her to see Anna in a heap at the breakfast table, coffee mug clutched tightly in a pale hand.

Valencia takes a loud sip of her coffee.

“I told you I had a date.”

“I thought you meant _outside_ the house.”

Cas coughs.

“Claire was hoping for breakfast.”

“Didn’t they feed her at her friend’s house?” Anna asks, lifting her head to squint at them.

“Yeah, but that was _hours_ ago,” Claire complains.

“Hours a—it’s eleven thirty on a _holiday_. How can it have been hours ago?”

“Patience gets up at six.” Claire pauses, then adds, “And puts on _pants._ ”

Valencia grins into her mug.

“Ooh. People like that are _so weird._ ”

Anna throws a wadded up napkin across the room at her, and then collapses back onto the table. It’s a surprisingly accurate shot, and if Val hadn’t dodged, it would have hit her.

“What about you, Cas?” she asks, unperturbed. “Work up an _appetite_?”

Cas sighs.

“Hardly. I ate too much spaghetti, watched Harry Potter, and went to bed at ten. However, Dean did make breakfast this morning, so I don’t want anything besides coffee.”

Claire _knew_ it.

Which still leaves the question — what went wrong? Cas doesn’t sound totally happy about how his night went, which means he must have been open to _something,_ but it still didn’t happen.

Is _Dean_ the problem?

Claire follows Cas to the table, taking a seat next to the Annalump as she wracks her brain for a solution.

“I’m not done with that,” Anna complains when Cas pries the mug from her hands.

“I’m just reheating it. You let it get cold.”

“I’m _dying,_ ” she mutters dramatically, all without moving her head, and Cas rolls his eyes as he ferries the cup to the microwave.

“Okie dokie.” Valencia hops down from the counter, radiating amusement. “Who wants what?”

“French toast!” Claire says quickly, putting her thoughts on hold for a moment.

“She’ll have scrambled eggs, as well,” Cas adds. Claire’s considerably less excited about eggs than french toast, but Cas had a bad night so she’s not going to argue with him.

“Do we have berries?” Anna croaks.

It’s always amazing to Claire how little Anna knows about what’s going on in her kitchen. Val says she does all the shopping, since something she calls an ‘efficiency buff’ means Anna can do it in half the time it takes anyone else, but apparently she doesn’t bother to keep track of it once she brings it home.

“Yes, my dying friend, we have berries.”

“Ah. Then — I will eat the french toast,” Anna agrees weakly, and Claire stifles a giggle.

Valencia turns on the radio while she cooks, and Cas stares into the distance, sighing occasionally, though at one point he lets his palm hover next to Anna’s mouth, checking for breath.

She snaps her jaws perilously close to his fingers, eyes still shut.

“I’m not _dead._ ”

Cas grins at Claire over her head.

“But you said you were _dying._ ”

Cas is being playful; that’s a good sign, at least. For a long time, Cas hardly made any jokes or smiled when other people did. He’s being funny again, lately, but Claire knows that kind of thing is fragile. Up until recently, she didn’t feel much like laughing either.

So why is Dean messing it up?

It’s frustrating, because she hasn’t seen Dean since school let out, and she — well, she doesn’t _miss_ him, or anything, but she did get used to seeing him every day, and it feels really weird not to. And even though it’s pretty cool, having other people hang out with her in the classroom, it means she doesn’t talk to him as much, and — and that’s weird, too.

It also means she has _no idea_ what could be going on with him now.

Cas didn’t say they were broken up, and he _did_ stay overnight, so Dean must want to keep dating him, right? Which means there’s something else going on, some reason he’s holding back.

It’s gotta be what happened before.

Claire wishes she knew more about it — maybe she should have stayed in the kitchen instead of storming off that one time — but there’s no way she’s asking Cas.

She reviews what she _does_ know, for now; Cas’s friends made a bet so he would try and get Dean to fall in love with him; Cas did, and they dated, and then Dean found out, and they never spoke again.

Just based on _that —_ maybe Dean’s worried Cas still doesn’t mean it?

It sounds like the dumbest thing she’s ever heard, because she’s never seen Cas like this in her _life,_ and Bela made it sound like it was like that before, too — but Dean probably _only_ knows what Cas is like when Cas is in love with him, so he must not be able to tell that Cas is _obviously in love with him._

God, this is so _stupid._

But then, maybe it’s not that obvious? Claire used to be baffled when Dad would keep nagging Cas, even when it was clear Cas had had enough. She’d figured it was a sibling thing she didn’t understand, where maybe you just did that to each other, but Dad would always act surprised when Cas blew up.

Or sometimes Dad would make jokes that hurt his feelings a little, but Cas would either smile or roll his eyes, and Dad would laugh like nothing was wrong. Eventually, Claire determined that he honestly _couldn’t_ tell; it seemed strange, because Dad was never dumb _or_ mean, and he got along really well with pretty much everybody, but he was just — kind of bad at reading Cas.

Grandma is, too, now that Claire thinks about it; so is Grandpa, but he’s not around very much and Claire is a little scared of him, so he probably doesn’t count either way. And Bela said none of them figured out how Cas felt when it was happening, so in light of that — well, maybe Cas is actually kind of hard to read, for most people.

And actually, Dean must be extra suspicious, because when Cas pretended before (even though it sounds like he wasn’t really pretending), Dean believed it — so of course he’s on guard, now. It might be that he needs better proof before he’s willing to really commit to anything, and even though Adam said he was easy, this is probably different. (Which, it _should_ be. This _is_ Cas, after all.)

Okay. Dean’s got cold feet because he can’t tell that Cas loves him. Claire can work with that.

She’d rather not have to wait until school starts again, though.

Her opportunity comes when Valencia, one careful eye on a mostly-upright Anna as she clumsily stabs at the french toast, brings up Christmas plans.

“So — after we get back from your mom’s; we were going to live in pajamas and decompress for a couple days, right?”

“It’s necessary,” Anna insists darkly. “ _Two_ days there. _Two._ _Days.”_

“It’s not that bad,” Val says, but there’s a glint in her eyes that says she knows it’s _way_ worse for Cas and Anna.

“That’s because you’re out of her jurisdiction, and she _likes_ you. She doesn’t know you keep her innocent child up half the night with your unholy sounds of fornication. But no, Cas is a raging queer and I’m not married and procreating so we get two-day long lectures for Christmas.”

“I really don’t rage anymore,” Cas protests. Anna just tosses a blueberry at him, and he catches it in his mouth.

Claire wants to play, too, but they haven’t done that game in a while, so it feels kind of like a big deal.

Besides, they’re still talking.

“Right. _So,_ you know. The more the merrier, right?”

Anna pauses, fork halfway to her mouth.

“Are you honestly asking if you can invite that overgrown _banshee_ back to sully my baby brother and niece’s ears after a wholesome family holiday?”

She looks annoyed, but her voice wavers when she gets to ‘wholesome,’ like she’s trying not to laugh.

“Sam’s actually very quiet,” Valencia informs her patiently. “That was me.”

Anna nearly collapses into her plate, but it’s from laughter, so it’s probably fine.

“Well, why not? Go ahead and invite him. We’re marathoning _Warehouse_.”

“Cas should invite Dean, then,” Claire interjects hurriedly, and Anna chokes on the bite she just took. “I mean, it’s — if his brother’s coming, and Cas is gonna be here, it’d be weird not to, right?”

“That’ll be too many—"

“Great idea, Claire,” Valencia says loudly, shooting Anna a speaking look. “Cas, invite Dean.”

Cas hesitates, which, _why_ ? Claire is _handing_ him an opportunity here, _and_ she’s going to help him out when it arrives (not that he knows that). He should be _ecstatic._

“Alright. As long as everyone promises to be civil.”

“Just say ‘Anna,’ Cas, we all know who you mean,” Valencia chides him, and Anna scowls.

“I can be civil. I shouldn’t _have_ to be,” she adds meaningfully, “But I can. And I will.”

“Mhm. You can invite Bela, if you want,” Valencia offers, and Anna gives her a weird look.

“What? Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know, why would you?”

“Then why did you ask?” Anna looks to Claire and Cas for support, but Claire’s really confused, too.

“I thought Bela was Cas’s friend,” she says.

“She is.” Cas looks uncertain. “Should I invite her, too?”

“No,” Anna says, at the same time Valencia goes, “Sure.”

“What? No. Don’t invite her. The rest of us barely know her.”

“You’re letting me bring Sam.”

“Because you’re trying to a sign a lease on his pants. That’s completely different.”

Valencia shrugs.

“Ah, yes. Completely. Anyway, sorry — I thought she was your friend now, too, since you guys spent so much time hanging out at the 451 party.”

“Speaking of which, why was she there? I didn’t get a chance to ask,” Cas says, and Claire watches Anna curiously. This is all news to her.

But then, Bela’s pretty interesting to talk to, actually; Claire didn’t want to, but they still ended up having a conversation when she was over here, so the same thing probably happened to Anna. And come to think of it, Bela said something like Cas was the closest thing she had to family; does she even have anywhere to go on Christmas?

Maybe they _should_ invite her over.

“She was there as someone’s date.” Anna shrugs. “It sounded like he ditched her. I never even saw him.”

“Fascinating,” Valencia remarks blandly. “Well, it’s up to you guys. I’ll let Sam know.”

She snags her phone off the counter and plunks back down in her chair, firing off a text. Cas is doing the same, but much more slowly, and with more frowning, so Claire assumes he’s letting Dean know.

“Ugh. Why the hell not?” Anna says finally. “Cas, ask Bela if she wants to come lounge around the house watching TV for a couple days.”

“Or you could,” Val points out, and Anna blinks.

“No, I couldn’t? I don’t have her number?”

Valencia takes a deep breath.

“Ah. You don’t have her number. Of course.” She closes her eyes briefly. “Very well. Cas, invite Bela.”

Honestly, Claire doesn’t care either way. The important thing is that Dean and Cas are going to be here at the same time she is, and Claire-

Claire is going to fix this, once and for all.

“Castiel — would you mind helping me prepare the hot chocolate?”

Even if Cas’s head _weren’t_ pounding from being stuck in a room with several overexcitable children — and he hadn’t just had to dodge a grasping toddler hand trying to use his pant leg as a napkin — he knows the ‘would you mind’ is just for show, and there’s only one correct answer here.

Anyway, Hester’s been low-key frowning at him since he arrived, so it’s not really a surprise.

“Of course,” he says, going to meet her at the entrance to the hall, and she nods, clearly satisfied.

“Thank you. We have a full house tonight,” she adds, though she looks a lot more pleased by it than Cas is.

Still, she waits until they’re in the kitchen to say anything more, and when she does, it becomes apparent why.

“Why didn’t you bring your young man?”

Cas gives her a sharp look.

“Because he’s not mine.”

She sighs.

“Your father’s not here, Castiel.”

“Yes, well, regardless of who’s here — he’s not mine.”

She moves to fill the pot with water instead of answering, and for a brief, thrilling moment, Cas thinks that might actually be the end of it.

But then she flicks the stove on and turns to him, and it’s clear from the look on her face that this is only the beginning.

He heads to the fridge to retrieve the milk and cream, already tired.

“You know,” she starts, contemplative. “We always tried to do what was best for you.”

He grits his teeth.

“I know. I appreciate that,” he lies.

“I mean it. It’s so hard to know what your children need.” Hester frowns. “Some of you ended up needing different things. And you, especially — I tried, but it was always next-to-impossible to understand you.”

Cas aggressively pops the seal off the new carton of milk, but stays silent.

“And when you got older — you’d do things just to _do_ them _._ Which, yes, teenagers rebel — even Jimmy had his moments — but you were _so_ extreme, and you were never even happy about the things you did.”

He doesn’t know which pisses him off more, that his mother is _right,_ or that she knew and she still handled it the way she did.

“Ah, well — I was still happier than if I’d done what _you_ told me to.”

She purses her lips, but ultimately just sighs.

“Well, that’s what made you difficult. I knew what I thought you should be doing, and I knew what you _shouldn’t_ be doing, but I didn’t have any idea what you really wanted to do.”

Cas didn’t, either. In a perfect world, he would have had open-minded parents less preoccupied with arbitrary rules and purity markers than they were with affection, ones who happened to decide a _Dungeons & Dragons_ starter kit was a good birthday gift for a sixteen-year-old who would have no choice but to seek out like-minded company to use it, at which point he’d figure _out_ what he wanted, but alas — it’s not a perfect world.

At the end of the day, he got what he got — he has what he has — and while he’s sorry his mother’s getting introspective and having regrets, she’s just going to have to live with that.

“Anyways — you were so lost, Castiel,” she continues, oblivious. “And for what it’s worth, I genuinely thought I was doing what was best for you. No one wants to see their child hurt.”

He pauses, hands stilling over the butter wrapper.

And then he sets the stick down and turns to face her, an old, familiar anger lurching to the surface.

“Yes, well — you hurt me, anyway. What you wanted doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Hester’s expression tightens.

“I’m trying to tell you something. Could you please just—”

“Just what?” he goads, and sure enough, she throws her hands up with a sniff, a sheen of moisture appearing over her eyes.

There’s a reason Cas always hated this, even more than his father’s yelling.

It’s fair to be hurt, to defend himself, and he _knows_ that — but then she _cries_ and acts disappointed and he feels like he’s the one who-

“You’re right,” she announces stiffly, and he stops short. “I did my best, but I was not a perfect mother. And what I’m _trying_ to tell you, if you would quit trying to fight with me for a minute — is that I’m _sorry_.”

He stares, speechless.

Hester has a lot of feelings, about a lot of things, and she generally doesn’t hold back in expressing them.

 _I’m sorry_ isn’t one he’s heard before.

“More specifically,” she continues, folding her arms. “I’m sorry about what happened with Dean. In hindsight — I think it would have been good for you, to have developed that friendship. And as hard as it would have been for me, whatever might have happened between you two then, as much as it has taken me time to understand . . . it might have been the right thing for you. Your father and I — we shouldn’t have interfered.” She sighs. “Certainly, we shouldn’t have made you feel like you would — _harm_ him in some way. As difficult as you can be, and as much as it feels like you live in your own world sometimes . . . you don’t have it in you to hurt someone, Castiel. You never did.”

Cas just stands there, numbly thinking he’d rather his mother had just picked up the saucepan and clocked him with it.

“I dated him for a bet.”

Hester freezes, brows lifting.

“You — excuse me?”

He swallows.

“My friends bet that I couldn’t get him to fall in love with me.” Cas forces himself to look at her, lifting his chin. “I accepted.”

Her mouth falls open.

“You . . .”

“I broke his heart. He found out, and — and apparently, I’d succeeded.” He shrugs, fists clenching at his sides. “I _only_ ever spent time with Dean for the bet, Mom. So it would seem that, even in hindsight — you still don’t understand me.”

She’s silent for a moment, clearly stunned.

And then her mouth flattens.

He braces himself, half-expecting to be sent out of the kitchen.

“Well — perhaps you’re the one who doesn’t understand _yourself_!” she finally retorts.

He blinks.

“What?”

Hester huffs.

“I don’t know the details — and I would rather not; that was a cruel thing to conceive of, never mind try to execute — but it’s hardly the only reason you did it.”

Distantly, he thinks he might be gaping.

“What?” he repeats, and she shakes her head.

“It certainly all makes sense now,” she continues. “You were _so_ upset, that day you yelled at us—"

“As you yourself pointed out—" he starts, appalled, but her shoulders hitch a little higher and she ignores him.

"—and I’d prepared myself for another one of your _difficult_ phases—"

Cas bristles, opening his mouth.

"—but it didn’t happen. You just — settled down. You hardly picked fights anymore—"

Which, Cas doesn’t really remember picking fights, so much as responding to blatant provocation, but everyone has their version of history, he supposes.

"—and you seemed — well, you seemed happy. More than I’d seen you be since you were small.”

Cas stills, ire dissipating.

“I’ll be honest; I worried about it,” she adds, and he makes a face.

“You worried about me being _happy_?”

She gives him an impatient look.

“I worried about what was causing it. You’d go off in your own little world, as you do, but you’d get this little smile, sometimes. And even when you didn’t — well, with you, it was always in your eyes.” She sighs. “Even when you did it during dinner or family night, I didn’t have the heart to try and pull you back.”

He lets that sink in for a moment, and then clears his throat.

“Well, I was. Happy.” He hesitates. “All the times I asked to go to the mall with my friends, or to parties — I went to Dean’s.”

She nods, obviously unsurprised, then abruptly looks uneasy.

“Oh. Oh, no, tell me you didn’t—"

“I didn’t,” Cas says hotly, looking away. “I wouldn’t — I knew better than that.”

She relaxes.

“Of course you did. Though I’m sure you knew better than to make such a bet, and you did _that_ anyway.”

“If you’re expecting me to defend myself, I’m not going to,” he mutters. “I know I was wrong.”

“I know you know you were wrong,” she agrees. “He found out in the Spring, didn’t he?”

Cas frowns at her, and she sighs.

“You were so _sad_. It felt like all you did was hide in your room. For a time, I assumed Bela must have rejected you—"

“ _Really,_ M—"

“But I see. You went and broke your own heart.”

“I deserved it,” he mumbles, and she sniffs.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But it’s not for any of us to decide such things.”

Cas _almost_ points out the inconsistencies in her philosophy regarding what authority reserves exclusive right to determine things like punishments from situation to situation, but that argument didn’t go over well when he was ten, and he doubts it will now.

“ _Anyway,_ ” he says. “The point is, whatever you think my motives were — I did what I did. So if you’re expecting me to smuggle him in to future family holidays and tell Dad he’s just my roommate — it’s not going to happen.”

“Well, don’t _lie_ to your father, obviously, but — I don’t see why not. You were so young, Castiel. You may not have handled them well, but if your feelings were real—"

“What my feelings were didn’t matter,” Cas interrupts. “What I did — that’s what matters. That’s what Dean had to live with.”

“Your feelings absolutely matter,” she protests, appalled. “You said he found out. Did you expect him to?”

“Of course not,” Cas answers, brow furrowing. “I wouldn’t have—"

“There you go!” she insists, waving a hand. “You made a _mistake_ , Castiel. Our mistakes don’t define us.”

“If they’re bad enough, they do,” he snaps.

“Jimmy and Amelia made a mistake,” she counters. “And believe me, it wasn’t easy. They were judged, as were we. But something wonderful still came of it.”

“Jimmy and Amelia ended up with a happy marriage and Claire. All that came from me doing that was giving Dean lifelong trauma.”

“And love, apparently,” she has the gall to tell him. “Love is never a bad thing.”

“That’s not what you said at the time!”

“Sharing yourself with strangers you don’t care about and who don’t care about you isn’t love, Castiel.”

“Love shouldn’t have to be involved for people to enjoy themselves!”

She huffs, briefly glancing toward the ceiling.

“We’re not having that argument. It’s beside the point. The _point_ is — you may have lied, but your feelings were sincere. And perhaps I’m wrong, but I believe that you didn’t want to hurt him. That you _wouldn’t_ have, had it been up to you. I stand by what I said; you don’t have that in you.”

“It’s not about me,” Cas says tiredly, turning back to the stick of butter. “I keep telling you, but you don’t understand. I don’t matter. _Dean_ matters. His hurt matters — too much for anything to come of this.”

“Well, he still came to dinner. And said all those nice things about you,” she adds. “You _say_ it’s not about you, but I think you’re letting thoughts of yourself cloud your judgment of _him_.”

“I’m _not_ , Mom. Dean is — deeply kind. He can’t help it. But what I did was unforgivable.”

Hester stiffens, impatience shifting to anger.

“There’s nothing unforgivable. We all sin, Castiel. And if we’re sincere in our remorse, if we’re sincere in our commitment to be better — we all deserve forgiveness.”

“That’s not how the world works.”

“That may not be what’s always practiced, but it’s always true,” she insists. “And perhaps Dean has his own flaws to overcome, and he’s unable to offer you that forgiveness. But you still deserve it.”

“Well, as you _just_ pointed out — it’s not for us to decide, Mom. And so _what_ if he forgave me? It’s not something he can forget. That — that has been made abundantly clear.” Cas looks down. “He can’t — I’m not someone who—"

He cuts off, struggling to find the words, to get them out, a part of him wondering why he’s even trying to explain it to her anyway. She said it herself; she never understood him, and regardless of what too-little, too-late revelations she thinks she’s had — she still doesn’t.

She never will.

He flinches when she reaches out, putting a hand on his cheek, unexpected and strangely cool against his flushed face.

“Castiel. I am not always proud of what you do,” she says quietly. “But I’m always proud of you. And wherever you go, in heaven or on earth — you are a wonderful soul, and you will always be loved. You will always be worthy of that love. I hope you and Dean work something out. I hope he makes you happy. But whatever happens, wherever it turns out you and Dean happen to be on your individual paths — that will be true. And I want you to remember it.”

Cas’s eyes sting, sudden and sharp as his vision begins to blur at the edges, and for a moment, he feels paralyzed.

But then he quickly steps away, ducking his head.

“I have to use the bathroom,” he mutters, and blindly makes for the doorway.

Behind him, he hears his mother sigh.

“Why does Mom keep looking at you funny?” Anna whispers later, and Cas instinctively glances Rachel’s way, checking to make sure she’s still preoccupied trying to corral Raph’s children for a movie.

“Because she asked for help making hot chocolate and I hid in the bathroom.”

Anna’s silent for a moment.

“And . . . why did you hide in the bathroom?”

Cas hesitates.

“I told her about the bet,” he admits, and Anna makes a choking noise.

“You told her _what_?”

“It came up,” he mutters. “She wanted to know why I didn’t have a guest.”

“Okay, and you told her he’s a scheming dickbag, right?”

“No, because he’s not, and also, that would be pointless.”

“And telling her about the bet had a point?”

“She needed to understand why it wouldn’t work.”

“Because he’s a scheming dickbag!”

Cas gives her a look.

“Anna.”

“ _Cas_ ,” she huffs, and then sobers. “Was she mad?”

Cas hesitates.

“Yes,” he finally says. “She thinks a future is possible. And then she gave me some speech about being ‘proud of me’ and me being ‘worthy of love,’” he adds dryly, airquoting.

But perhaps it’s not as dryly as he thinks; Anna softens, and then she shifts a little closer, shoulder pressing into his.

“Well. I’m not going to endorse the whole speech without hearing it, but — she’s right about that.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it. Unfortunately — she’s wrong.”

“You were eighteen, Cas. It was shitty, and you should definitely be sorry, but — you can’t fix it.”

Can’t he, though? Isn’t that what this whole game is about?

“We’ll see.”

“Cas—"

“Anyway, she’s apparently desperate enough to see me settle down she’s decided to stop being picky about it. What about you?”

Anna gives him a sidelong look.

“Nothing too bad. We had a good conversation about work; she heard about Val’s new boyfriend and then, apropos of nothing, launched into a lengthy rant about how destructive cats can be — but she let it go pretty quick.”

“Ah.”

They’re quiet for a minute.

“For what it’s worth . . . I think she’s trying.”

Cas grimaces.

“So it would seem.”

“Cas.”

“What? You have to admit, it’s a little late.”

“Sure, but it’s not _too_ late. If it were, you wouldn’t be here at all.”

“Technically, I don’t have a choice.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But at the end of the day, Mom wants a second chance, even if she’s still clumsy going about it, and you — you’re here because on some level, you want to give her one.”

He says nothing, slumping further against the sofa, and Anna gives him a speculative look.

“You’re not really mad at her, are you?”

He pretends to consider it.

“No, I’m fairly certain I’m mad at her.”

“Not that much, though. Mostly — I think you’re mad at yourself.”

He gives her an incredulous look.

“Of course I’m mad at myself.”

“Right. And you thought she’d be mad at you, too.” She tilts her head. “You thought she’d tell you she was ashamed of you.”

“Well, she _should_ be,” he grumbles, and Anna hums, leaning back.

“Oh, Cas,” she sighs, and he glowers — _really? —_ but Anna just shakes her head, looping an arm through his.

“Leftover dessert?” she proposes lightly.

“We had hot chocolate an hour ago.”

“They were tiny cups!”

He rolls his eyes, but allows her to pull him to his feet.

“Fine. But if Mom asks me, I’m telling her you have a secret boyfriend.”

Anna gasps.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He wouldn’t, and she probably knows it, but just in case, he raises a brow.

“I don’t know. Mom _did_ say I was difficult.”

“There’s being difficult and then there’s being a sadist, and given how much time you spend self-flagellating—"

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive—"

"—I call your bluff. The point is — let’s hurry. I want to finish my cake while Mom’s too preoccupied with the grandbabies to ask me if I’m sure a fourth helping of dessert is a good idea.”

“Wait — when did you have a third?”

“Val and I had more cake while we pretended to step outside to make some phone calls.”

“And you didn’t _invite_ me?”

Anna shrugs, tugging him forward.

“You were busy playing peek-a-boo.” She pats his arm. “Now, come on, before she notices us leaving.”

With a huff, he follows her out.

Dean’s been in a lot of weird situations in his life, and though he certainly wouldn’t say this is the _weirdest,_ or anywhere close — that time he got stuck in an elevator for two hours with a group of Zelda/Star Wars crossover LARPers at a con was definitely weirder — it’s still pretty fucking weird.

When Cas asked if he wanted to have a two-day sleepover at his older sister’s house with a bunch of other people, Dean was a little confused, but definitely not enough to say _no._ Four hours prior, Dean had woken up to Cas _in his bed,_ probably not watching him sleep, warm and sleep-mussed and more importantly, open to cuddles. Had Dean been a little more awake and therefore present enough to worry about how they left things last night (or what kind of embarrassing shit he’d _admitted_ ), he probably wouldn’t have even tried, but when he first opened his eyes to see Cas staring back at him from the other side of the bed, it seemed like the most obvious thing in the world to roll over and kiss him.

And Cas let him. Cas let him kiss him with morning breath (though Dean was super careful not to let it come too much into play) and _kissed him back_ and then he curled up next to Dean and let Dean hold him and it was _fucking amazing._

Because it means that, rough conversations and humiliating meltdowns aside — they’re finally getting somewhere, aren’t they? Dean is gonna win this thing, and damn if it doesn’t feel like everything he’s ever wanted in his life.

So of course, if Cas wants to see him, Dean wouldn’t even care if Mr. and Mrs. Novak were going to be there. He’s _going,_ damn it. He’s come too far to risk giving up even a little ground, which means it’s in his best interests to see Cas as often as fucking possible, and if anything, he resents having to wait until after Christmas.

That being said — yeah, this is definitely weird.

For starters, Cas makes like he’s going to kiss Dean when he gets there, but the mouth headed for Dean’s twists up and the next thing Dean knows, Cas is just helping him out of his jacket.

Blinking in confusion, and more than a little put out, Dean turns around to find Anna flat out _glaring_ at him. Like, what the hell did he do?

Sure, he knows what he’s _going_ to do, but that’s none of her (or anyone else’s) fucking business.

She seems to disagree.

They get to the living room, and Dean’s scouting out the best places on the sectional to low-key cuddle with Cas, but then Anna seizes his arm — and holy _shit_ is she stronger than she looks — and guides him to a way distant corner.

“Here, Dean. Have a seat,” she says brightly, and practically forces him down. “Claire, you don’t hate Dean—" what the _hell_? “Come sit next to him.”

Claire shuffles over, expression pinched, and perches next to him. Dean offers her a friendly smile — it’s actually pretty nice to see her, since he’d gotten used to it before break, and there’s a Christmas gift for her in the car that he’d picked up on a whim — and then watches with envious eyes as Valencia claims the loveseat for herself and Sam.

He supposes he should just be grateful he doesn’t have to sit next to Bela. He knows she’s Cas’s friend, but she’s kind of also a horrible bitch, and he’s not totally sure why she’s here. This doesn’t seem like her kind of thing _at all._

Cas moves, and when his sister throws an arm out to bar his path, swiftly ducks under it to come sit next to Claire.

Interestingly, Claire perks up.

“Mr. W,” she says solemnly, turning earnest blue eyes on Dean, expression hopeful.

“Uh.” He feels vaguely attacked, for some reason. He knows he’s about to be asked something, but he also knows he’s going to feel like he has no choice but to say yes.

“Can _I_ sit on the edge? I like to lean on the armrest.”

“But—" Anna starts, except Dean has already leapt to his feet.

“ _Of course,_ Claire,” he agrees, bobbing his head enthusiastically. “You should definitely sit where you’re most comfortable.”

He _thinks_ he sees her roll her eyes, but he can’t be sure; her hair sweeps in front of her face when she scoots over.

Cas gives him a small smile when Dean sits back down, their shoulders bumping.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, even though they greeted each other less than five minutes ago at the door.

He grins, wide.

“Hey, Cas.”

“Anna, you’re blocking the TV. Sit down,” Valencia calls.

Anna drops onto the other side of the sectional with a huff, and next to her, Bela arches a brow.

“Are you quite alright?”

“No.” She stabs the _play_ button on the remote without further comment, tossing it aside. There’s a ridiculous amount of space on their side of the sectional, probably because she meant for Cas to be sitting with them, but Bela scoots closer and gives her an awkward pat on the shoulder.

If _Dean_ were Anna, he’d want a shower after that, just in case, but Anna simply gives her a suspicious look before relaxing back against the cushions.

Anyway, he waits a while, not wanting to look too eager, but around the time Pete and Myka show up to the Warehouse, he slips an arm around Cas’s shoulders. Cas immediately relaxes into him, like he didn’t even have to think about it, and Dean coasts high on the feeling as they watch.

Weird or not, he’s _so_ fucking glad to be here.

They pretty much spend the day like that, although people shift around a little, and they take breaks for snacks and meals. Anna chills the fuck out, eventually — Dean gets that this is one of her and Claire’s favorite shows or something — and by bedtime, a lot of the weirdness has dissipated and everyone else seems pretty happy to be where they are, too.

It’s around eleven-thirty, and Dean could have stayed up later, but Claire conked out on his shoulder about twenty minutes ago and Cas’s head is listing on his other side.

Anna yawns as the ending music plays, switching off the TV.

“Okay, everyone. Sleep is a thing, and it’s important.” She gets to her feet, stretching, and next to him, Cas straightens up, catching her yawn. He glances over at Dean and Claire.

“Oh,” he says, blinking tiredly, and leans across Dean to lightly run his fingers across the top of Claire’s hair. “Claire. It’s bedtime.”

Claire shifts, turning her face deeper into Dean’s shoulder with an unintelligible mumble, and Cas pokes her forehead.

“Claire,” he repeats, and props an elbow on Dean’s free shoulder. “Wake up.”

Finally, she lifts her face, squinting.

“What’d I miss?”

“Only about half an episode.”

“Oh. Okay.” She glances down, and then quickly leans back. “Sorry, Mr. W.”

Dean just shakes his head, smiling.

“’S’okay, Claire. Cas was headed there himself.”

“I was perfectly awake,” Cas objects, even as he withdraws his arm, settling back into Dean’s side, his head drooping.

Dean winks at her, and gets a big grin in return.

“Alright, where’s everybody sleeping? I need to know before I end up having to carry this guy anywhere.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Cas mumbles, and draws himself up. “But yes, we do need to know where we’re supposed to go.”

Anna’s giving Dean a strange look from by the coffee table; when he lifts a brow at her, she seems to shake herself.

“Well, if Dean and Sam want to share—"

“They don’t,” Valencia interjects sunnily, and Sam just smiles, utterly shameless in a way Dean decides isn’t his responsibility.

“Of course,” Anna mutters. “Dean, are you okay on the sofa? Our second guest room is an office right now, and her Highness probably wants a bed.”

“I don’t want to put anyone out,” Bela protests. “I can share with you, if you’d like to give Dean and Cas the guest room.”

Anna narrows her eyes.

“Claire shares with me.”

“I can sleep on the s—" Claire starts, but Anna ignores her.

“Dean and Cas should be fine out here. Right, guys?”

It’s fine. Even if Anna let them have the guest room to themselves, Dean would feel a little weird doing anything too interesting tonight, especially with his brother and one of his students somewhere in the house.

He’s pretty sure that’s not going to stop _Sam_ , but again — that’s kind of above his paygrade, here.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

Cas nods.

“I’ll get some blankets and pillows.”

They say good night to everyone, and then set to making up the sofa. One side of the sectional is a little on the short side, which Cas volunteers to take, but Dean looks at how far out the cushions extend and has a _way_ better idea.

“Hand over the blankets, Cas.”

Cas squints at him.

“I offered to take the short side, not freeze.”

Dean huffs, tugging the pile out of Cas’s hands, and starts assembling a nest of sorts on the long side.

Cas surveys him skeptically as he arranges things, doubling up both pillows against the arm, and once Dean’s satisfied with the result, he gestures for Cas to get in.

“What about you?”

“It’s a pretty wide sofa,” he explains, grinning, and Cas’s grumpy look fades to surprise.

Anyway, he seems to be speechless, so Dean shrugs and slides in, tucking himself against the back of the sofa and patting the fairly generous space next to him.

“It’s fucking cold in here, anyway. C’mon.”

There’s no response for a moment, and Cas starts toward him so hesitantly, expression unreadable, that Dean begins to have second thoughts. This is pretty different than what they did at his house the other night, in some ways, and maybe Cas isn’t okay with it.

Dean clears his throat.

“I can — you don’t gotta — I know a lot of people like their space while they sleep, so if you don’t want—"

The look Cas gives him then is so venomous, Dean’s surprised his veins don’t all shrivel up and kill him right there. As it is, he nearly has a heart attack when Cas crosses the remaining distance in two quick steps and practically flings himself into the leftover space.

His arm hits Dean’s chest with a thump, but Dean’s too startled to mind, and Cas wriggles around, rearranging blankets until he finally makes himself comfortable facing Dean, his forehead resting against Dean’s chest. His arms are folded awkwardly between them, and he’ll probably have to reposition himself at some point, but Dean’s okay with that. He doubts he’ll last the whole night like this, either.

“Good night, Dean,” Cas says firmly, voice a little muffled by their proximity.

Dean smiles into his hair, and loops an arm around him.

“Night, Cas.”

Dean wakes up on his back, something warm-but-very heavy halfway on top of him.

It takes him a second to remember where he is, but then he realizes the thing is breathing and also probably Cas, and yesterday comes right back.

He shifts a little, because as much as he doesn’t mind the closeness, Cas isn’t exactly small, and it’s considerably more comfortable with only a little bit of his weight resting on Dean’s side instead.

When he opens his eyes, he’s startled to find a pair of curious blue ones looking back at him.

“Uh. ‘Morning, Claire.”

Claire cracks a smile from her perch criss-cross on the coffee table.

“Anna’s gonna be downstairs soon,” she informs him. “I think she thought you’d sleep on separate sides.”

Dean flushes. It had seemed totally reasonable last night, but now that the room is bright with the morning sun and a thirteen-year-old is giving him an unbearably smug, amused look, he feels ridiculous.

“Hey, we’re both big guys.”

“Yeah, and that’s not a problem _this_ way, obviously.”

“I haven’t graded your final, yet,” he warns her, and she smirks.

“If you mess with my grade, I’ll tell my guardian.”

Dean shakes his head, and Cas stirs.

“We’re gonna wake him up,” he whispers, carefully extricating himself so he’s balanced against the back of the sofa to keep from falling. Cas makes an unhappy noise, but curls into the space left behind. “C’mon.”

They make it to the hallway just as Anna’s coming down the stairs.

“There you are, Claire.” She smiles, completely ignoring Dean. “Are you hungry? I don’t know if Val’s up yet, but I can make you eggs.”

Dean raises his eyebrows at her, and her mouth presses into a thin line.

“You, too, if you’re hungry,” she relents.

He grins.

“I can help, if you want.”

“Really. _You_ can cook?”

“Cas _loves_ my cooking,” he tells her, unable to resist a smirk.

She sighs.

“At least he’s eating, I guess. Fine. To the kitchen.”

“I’ll be right there,” Claire says. “I wanna get my phone. Don’t hurt Mr. W while I’m gone.”

She bounds up the stairs in that way that only makes sense to kids, and Anna gestures a mildly offended Dean through.

He can tell right away that something’s off in the kitchen, though it probably all looks fairly innocuous if you don’t know Sam. While Dean’s little brother may genuinely be a conscientious, thorough person, the way he’s carefully leaned over the sink, clearly _trying_ to look casual as he scrubs a coffee cup, is downright suspicious.

Valencia offers them a friendly smile when they come in. Her apparent bedhead is a disaster, and Dean almost wants to ask if she _is_ related to Cas.

“Thank God, you’re up. You want to make us breakfast?” Anna asks. “I don’t mind doing it, but I can never get shit as fluffy as you can.”

“Sure. Sam and I were actually just making waffles,” Valencia says breezily, and wipes her mouth.

“Waffles? _Please_ tell me we’re not out of fruit, you can’t eat waffles witho-what?” Anna stops, furrowing her brow in alarm. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“You just wiped your mouth.” Her gaze bounces to Sam, then returns. “Why did you just wipe your mouth?”

Dean, for his part, gapes at his little brother, suddenly pretty sure he knows _exactly_ what’s off, and is not at all surprised to see Sam resolutely scrubbing away at the same goddamn cup, shoulders creeping toward his ears.

Valencia shrugs, absently smoothing her palms across the counter.

“Hm? Oh, you know. Just . . . sampling some batter.”

Anna abruptly turns around and walks out of the room.

“ _In_ _my house!_ ” she yells shrilly, and Dean _wants_ to feel bad, like he totally raised Sam better than this, but Valencia lives here, too, and a bigger part of Dean is just kind of proud.

He’s also not going anywhere _near_ the waffles, but whatever; he’s more of a pancake guy, anyway.

“What in your house?” he hears Claire ask from the hallway, and winces. He forgot about Claire. He’s less proud now that he thinks about how terribly wrong that could have gone.

“Uh,” Anna sputters, clearly at a loss.

“Waffles!” Valencia calls. “Anna _hates_ waffles _!”_

Dean’s surprised to find Cas chime in, voice gruff with sleep.

“She thinks they’re an abomination!”

“Oh.” Claire sounds somewhat taken aback. “I didn’t know that. Does Grandma? She’s thinking about buying a wafflemaker, so you might wanna say something.”

“I . . . will do that. Thank you, Claire,” Anna says stiffly, and stalks back into the kitchen with a murderous glare, Claire on her heels.

Cas stumbles in a few seconds later, making a beeline for Dean, and instantly, the suspect waffles are forgotten.

Dean colors, ready to open his arms, because okay, _wow,_ Cas is cuddly in the morning — but a moment later, Cas shoves past him and Dean realizes he’ been standing in front of the coffee pot.

Anna clearly saw what happened there, if the way she’s suddenly smirking is any indication, but you know what? It’s fine. It’s not like Dean _wanted_ Cas to be cuddly in the morning — he was just going to go along with it, if that happened to be a thing Cas was set on — and either way, this means there’s coffee. That’s good news.

Once he’s got a cup of consolation joe, he turns around to find Claire clutching a glass of milk, fixing him with a determined look.

“Do you want to drink your coffee on the patio, Mr. W?”

Dean blinks at her, then glances out the window. Frost covers the grass, and if he’s not mistaken, the high today is like, thirty-seven degrees.

“Uh. I, uh. Don’t have a coat on?”

Claire frowns.

“Oh.”

Huh. What’s this about?

“But I might go sit in the living room, if that’s okay with your Aunt,” he offers. Said Aunt is drinking her coffee and focused on a laptop while Valencia and an only-slightly-more-normal Sam prepare breakfast, but Claire nods eagerly.

“Yeah, it’s way more comfy in there. She doesn’t mind.”

Cas gives him a questioning look as Claire leads him out of the room, and Dean shrugs. He’s not sure what’s going on, but he’s willing to bet Claire has something she wants to say, and he’s always happen to listen.

He finds a spot in the blanket nest once they’re there, pleased to find it still a little warm, and Claire hops up on the coffee table again. She takes a fortifying sip of her milk and then speaks.

“So, uh. Cas told me about — about the thing. That happened.”

Dean wracks his brain for any inkling of what she’s talking about. Between him and Cas, there’s been a whole lot of _not_ happening, lately, and even if the opposite were true, he doubts Cas would be telling Claire about it.

“What thing?” he asks cautiously.

Claire glances away.

“Uh. The bet-thing,” she mutters, and yeah, that thing Dean thought about always being happy to listen?

He _takes it back._

“Did he?” he asks flatly, wondering just how much detail Cas went into. Like, does Claire have a vivid image of Dean almost-crying in a fucking diner in her head?

Not fucking cool.

“Yeah. He — he didn’t want to, but Bela let it slip when she was here, so . . . he explained.”

Curiosity edges anger out of the forefront.

“Yeah? And what did he have to say about it?”

She sighs, pausing for a big gulp of milk.

“Not a lot. Bela told me more than he did.” She fidgets. “She tried to say it was her and their friends’ fault, but Cas knows he was wrong. Like, really wrong.”

“Well, he was.”

Claire nods, peering up at him for a moment before looking away again.

“She — she said that changed him.”

“He’s not the only one,” Dean mutters, and Claire presses on.

“I couldn’t even believe it when I found out, because Cas isn’t _like_ that. He’s never been like that, for as long as I can remember. My parents were really religious, so they taught me a lot about — about being righteous, as far as God and the bible and stuff goes, but Cas taught me about right and wrong, even if you didn’t believe in God.”

“Ah. He’s really not into all that, huh?” he asks, cracking a smile. Honestly, he’s torn; he kind of wants to bombard Claire with questions about what Cas was like when she was growing up, because Claire still probably knows the Cas of now better than Dean does, and Dean wants to know _everything —_ but he also feels weird and embarrassed, discussing this with Claire. “Well, makes sense. Church people, not to mention your family, weren’t always great to him.”

She slumps.

“I know. It’s so dumb. Even my dad — he loved Cas a lot, but he hurt his feelings sometimes.”

Dean nods slowly, not missing the sorrow in her voice.

“It’s, uh, easier than you’d think, isn’t it?”

Claire’s head snaps up.

“Yes!” She nods. “It — Cas — I guess he’s hard to read. He doesn’t always show or say what he’s feeling very well, even when he tries.”

“I get that.”

“But you should know — he’s a good person. I know he did that thing when he was younger, but that’s not who he is.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably, focusing on his coffee. This is definitely going places he doesn’t even want to think about, much less talk about, but Claire has a goal here, and she seems set on reaching it.

She looks at him, painfully earnest.

“You know, right? You know he’d never, _ever_ do anything like that, now?”

Like Dean would _let_ him.

“Yeah.”

She nods.

“And he wouldn’t lie about his feelings, either?”

“Yeah.”

“But he also might not — he might not say them with words?”

“Yeah?” Dean says again, uncertain. Her gaze is meaningful, and part of him almost wonders if she’s trying to tell him—

She sets her glass down and hops off the coffee table, kneeling on the sofa next to him after she does a quick check of the hallway.

“Cas is in love with you,” she tells him, keeping her voice down, and it feels like the world grinds to a halt. “I know he hurt you before, but he is and he means it this time, and for what it’s worth, I think he meant it then, too. I wasn’t there, but Bela was, and she says so. She says he never got over you, either, so when he tells you he loves you, you _have_ to believe him. Even if he doesn’t, you need to trust that, because it’s true. Okay?”

Dean stares at her, speechless. He doesn’t even know where to start, with that. Obviously, there’s been some heavy-duty spin happening behind the scenes, if Claire thinks for a moment Cas had feelings for him before, period, let alone feelings like _that,_ but even if he ignores all that, there’s still the matter of now.

Here’s the thing. Claire’s thirteen, which is young and generally considered to be naive by most people, but kids aren’t stupid and sometimes they know better than adults.

And certainly, she probably knows Cas better than Dean does.

And she thinks — she thinks Cas is in love with him.

She’s also still looking at him like the fate of whole universes depend on his answer here.

“Okay,” he finally manages. What else can he say? Claire obviously needed to unload on him, so of course he was going to listen, but things are complicated as fuck and Dean has no desire to try and explain them to her in return.

_Cas is in love with you._

As for that — Dean doesn’t even know, is still trying to wrap his head around it, because _Charlie_ can try to shame and guilt-trip him with talk of Cas liking him, looking at him like a lifeline, whatever, but Dean knows her game and he’s not playing.

Claire, though — what does she even have to gain, by seeing things that aren’t there, or trying to push Dean in any given direction? Which — it occurs to him, then, that she might actually be a little disappointed when this thing with him and Cas doesn’t work out. His stomach dives for a second time in as many minutes, but still, he forces the thoughts aside.

That’s for Cas to worry about, not him. He can be Claire’s teacher and her friend, but he can’t let that get in the way of him doing what he has to do in his personal life. There are boundaries, here, and letting one of his students have that much sway over his life outside of school is crossing them.

He just — he’ll have to deal with the fallout when and if it happens.

“Okay.” She settles back against the cushions, looking relieved, and gives the air a sniff. “I think the waffles are gonna be ready soon.”

“Cool.” He’s still processing.

Suddenly, she elbows him.

“Mr. W,” she prompts. “You love him, too, right?”

Dean freezes.

The word _yes_ is on the tip of his tongue, and it’s almost made it out when he catches himself.

After all, lying to Cas is one thing, but outright lying to _Claire_ seems kind of . . .

Unexpectedly, she laughs, eyes soft and happy, despite the teasing in her next words.

“Wow, okay, that answers that.” She pats him on the shoulder and then hops over the back of the sofa.

She lingers in the doorway a second, hesitant.

“Hey, um. Maybe you should tell him?”

Fortunately, she doesn’t wait for an answer this time.

Which is good — because Dean doesn’t have one.

Dean’s looking at him again.

He’s been doing it all day, ever since Claire had her mysterious talk with him, and it’s making Cas nervous. It would be bad enough if it were _just_ looking, but every time Cas catches him, it seems like Dean wants to say something, and Cas is going out of his mind wondering what it could be.

If he’s truly being honest, Cas is afraid. It’s entirely possible Claire just wanted to talk to Dean about her friends or some books or something innocent like that, but his mind spends the day preoccupied with worry that they talked about _Cas,_ and now — Dean might change his mind.

Which is a ludicrous worry to have; Cas can play pretend, can snuggle up to Dean and feel drunk off the touches and the looks he gets in return, but they are not and never will be real. Their talk the night of the awkward sleepover made it abundantly clear that Dean’s scars run deep, and he’s far from being over it.

However Cas might be feeling, lately — whatever hopes he’s desperately struggling to stamp out — there’s an expiration date on all of this.

And yet, he’s terrified that something Claire said may have moved it up.

Dean’s fondness for her is genuine, Cas knows. If there was anything that would give him second thoughts about seeing this through, Claire would be it.

It leaves Cas wondering, in the worst of ways, and even Dean remaining a warm presence at his side all day does nothing to stop it.

They break to order pizza around five, after which Anna insists on an intermission so she can take a walk. Cas wouldn’t mind it, and most of the others are keen to join her, but Dean refuses, citing hellish cold, and Cas immediately opts out to stay with him. He doesn’t _say_ that’s why, but he gathers, from his sister’s face, that it’s clear.

“Keep it PG. We could be back any time,” she warns him, although she ruffles his hair before she leaves, and soon enough, they’re alone.

Dean’s got that look again, like he wants to say something and he’s not sure how, but Cas is a coward and doesn’t give him a chance. He pushes Dean back on the sofa and follows him down, climbing haphazardly into his lap before kissing him.

It’s a cheap shot, but with any luck, Cas has a way of pushing _out_ that expiration date, too.

Dean is clearly surprised, but very much on board, if the way he wraps an arm around Cas’s waist and hauls him closer is any indication.

Good. That — that’s a good sign, isn’t it?

It’s surprisingly difficult to use reason when Dean is kissing him.

He’s not sure how much times passes before Dean turns his head away a little, panting.

“How mad would your sister be if we—"

“So mad,” Cas murmurs, nipping at Dean’s jaw, and draws him back for another kiss.

“Damn.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“We could just—" Dean starts a few moments later, and Cas reluctantly halts his efforts toward an impressive mark above Dean’s collarbone.

“I refuse to risk my older sister and my _niece_ walking in on that.”

Dean gives him a look.

“What about your two friends?”

Cas shrugs, a little embarrassed.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Though it’s been a _very_ long while.

Dean gives him a speculative look, running a hand down his side.

“Huh. Exhibitionist?”

“No, just very young and bad at timing.”

Dean smiles.

“’S’okay, Cas. We’ve all been there.”

“Ah. That would be why you aren’t worried about _your_ brother walking in.”

“Hey, I’m pretty sure he and Val hooked up in the kitchen this morning. He deserves what he gets.” Dean pauses, and then looks a little sheepish. “But yeah. Poor kid’s seen some shit.”

Cas drops his head back down, chuckling.

“That explains why Anna was so upset at breakfast.”

“I dunno, I think she was way more pissed about not getting to eat waffles.”

Cas hums, and leans up to kiss him again, adopting a much slower pace, since Dean’s ability to be concerned about the risks seems to lessen drastically the more heated things get.

They probably spend an hour like that, and the thought crosses his mind that the last time he spent that long just sitting, slowly making out with someone with no real endgoal in sight, it probably _was_ Dean.

He chases it away with another kiss. He doesn’t want to be sad right now, not when he’s surrounded by warmth and what he can easily pretend is true affection.

“What’re your plans for New Year’s?” Dean asks, leaning his forehead against Cas’s.

“Mm. I could go to my mother’s, but it’s not mandatory.”

“Had enough at Christmas?”

Cas hesitates.

Apart from the difficult conversation in the kitchen, Hester didn’t pester or pry or lecture, and when she’d hugged him goodbye, she’d told him Claire seemed much happier.

And while the implication there, in her warm, smiling eyes, was _wrong —_ after all, it’s certainly nothing Cas is doing — he supposes he appreciated the thought.

“No. No, Christmas was — it was fine. She was actually very nice to me.”

“Yeah? That’s good. She _should_ be nice to you.” Dean kisses him again. “She was a dick to you before.”

Cas’s heart faces the very real threat of implosion.

“Well. I understand she was doing her best.”

“Sure, but you still deserved better.”

Cas swallows, closing his eyes.

He’s fine. This is fine. This is just Dean, probably the Dean that took care of his little brother and went on to teach children, having compassion for the kid Cas used to be, because that’s who Dean is.

Still, he changes the subject.

“Well. What about you? Plans for New Year’s?”

“Roadhouse, as always. It’s a good time. You should come.”

“I don’t know; I was kind of looking forward to non-alcoholic sparkling cider and playing Candyland with the family.”

“Candyland is pretty great,” Dean agrees, rubbing his nose against Cas’s in a way that is juvenile and lame and absolutely makes Cas’s heart race like he’d just received another filthy kiss instead.

“Don’t let Claire hear you say that,” he jokes lightly.

Dean pauses.

“She got a problem with Candyland or board games?”

“Candyland. She likes board games. Risk is her favorite, but Mom says it gets people too worked up.”

Dean snorts.

“Do I wanna know?”

Cas shrugs.

“It’s _Anna’s_ favorite, too.”

“Shit. Sounds brutal.”

“It is.”

Cas wins a fair amount of the time, himself, but he’s not about to give Dean a heads-up, just in case.

“Well. I know it’s a long shot, but if you come to the Roadhouse with me instead, I’ll kiss you at midnight.”

Cas has to fight the smile, but he manages.

“Is that all?”

Dean stills, and Cas draws back to get a better look at his face. Was that the wrong thing to say, somehow?

It’s difficult to read Dean’s expression, for once; there’s something careful in the way he’s regarding Cas, intent.

“Doesn’t have to be. You could come home with me, afterward.”

Oh.

It shouldn’t be a surprise — they’ve been headed here, for a while — but it is. His mind feels a little blank, suddenly, though not in a bad way.

Certainly, it would seem that whatever Claire said did _not_ change his mind.

“Okay,” Cas whispers.

Dean nods, holding his gaze for a long moment, like he’s searching for something.

And then he tugs Cas back down for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> ** SPOILERS **
> 
> Homophobia: Dean’s father is homophobic, and Cas’s parents are also uncomfortable with and disapproving of his sexuality. John is only very, very briefly present, though some incidents are mentioned, but Cas’s mother makes it clear that they don’t believe his sexuality is real or valid, and at one point, even confronts him out of fear that he’s trying to corrupt Dean. Charlie has helped Dean understand and be comfortable in his sexuality, even if he hides it from his father, but Cas struggles with the judgment and lack of understanding from his family.
> 
> A+ Parenting: Again, John is largely absent, though it’s clear he puts too much pressure on Dean. Dean is responsible for much of Sam’s care, and there’s a lot of pressure on Dean to invest his time and effort in football and training. Dean doesn’t feel like he has a choice but to stay closeted until he leaves home, but he does have very supportive friends and he mostly seems to be coping well.
> 
> Cas’s family, again, is very critical of both him and his sexuality. He’s made to feel bad for being who he is, and he often feels unfavorably compared to Jimmy, who is better-adjusted and devout the way Cas is not. His parents allow him to go out and attend parties and such with Bela and Crowley because they are impressed by the Talbot and Crowley families’ wealth and power and they hope Cas will fix his attention on Bela (a girl), but don’t fully approve of those friends and are otherwise restrictive. They do not give him an allowance or lunch money because they don’t trust him not to spend it on things they’d disapprove of. They tend to assume the worst about him, and even later, as an adult, Cas struggles with a sense of being misunderstood and undervalued by them.
> 
> Past Character Death/Grief/Mourning: John’s death is referenced in the future, in no great detail. This tag is primarily for Cas, Claire, and their family grieving Jimmy and Amelia’s death. Amelia passed away of illness a few years prior to the beginning of Part II, and Jimmy died in a car accident on impact a year prior to Cas bringing Claire to Lawrence.
> 
> Mentions of bottom!Dean: It is indicated that Dean has never bottomed, but that he assumes (both in past and present) that Cas would expect to top, based on his impression of Cas and the dynamic they had in high school (to be clear, this is a very naive conclusion; many, many factors go in to determining sexual preferences, and regardless of personality or relationship dynamic, what someone’s looking for in the bedroom can vary wildly). Cas makes it clear that he doesn’t care. That said, it is neither indicated that Dean is particularly interested in bottoming or particularly opposed to it, so once again, wherever your preference lands on this subject, there’s what you can expect.
> 
> Gentle Reminder About the Bet Situation: To be clear, Cas dates Dean for a bet. Regardless of what real feelings develop and his intention by the end to make sure Dean doesn’t know and isn’t hurt by it, he still approaches Dean, deceives him, and ultimately humiliates him in a way that gives Dean lasting trauma and profound insecurity. That trauma and insecurity, coupled with his unresolved feelings for Cas, is legitimately damaging to Dean’s future attempts at intimate relationships and the way he perceives his own self-worth, so be prepared for that. This is a lighthearted story (in my opinion), and the first part reads a lot like a fun, fluffy high school AU, but that moment does come, is painful and has lasting consequences, so please be prepared.


End file.
